Ted Bell - Tsar

How she’d looked emerging from the water that sunny afternoon on Bermuda so long ago. How grand and full of life she’d been racing the sleigh across the snowy Russian landscape, the reins of the troika in her hands, shouting commands at her chargers. And the warm, perfumed nearness of her in the darkened box at the Bolshoi, that moment when she’d leaned over and whispered those words, telling him he was going to be a father.

He hadn’t saved her, hadn’t saved either of them, had he?

He had loved her so.

His finger moved of its own accord and pushed the button.

IT BEGAN WITH a crack in the sky. The sound of the explosion was unimaginable, as if atoms were splitting. A great thunder rolled through the forest, a shockwave bending the trees in its path. The world was suddenly illuminated with false daylight, a supernova of blinding orange, and the high branches of the trees above Hawke’s head stood in stark relief, like skeletal images in an X-ray.

He leaned forward and saw the Tsar erupt into flames, first at the bow and then racing along the fuselage toward the stern. He heard loud cracking noises, probably massive internal bracing wires snapping inside. The thin fabric skin of the outer hull, supposedly flame-retardant and self-extinguishing, was soon hanging in tattered bits from the skeleton of the frame, some of it already consumed by the fiery blast. Burning fuel spewing upward from the top of the ship was causing low pressure inside, allowing atmospheric pressure to collapse the hull into itself.

There was another muffled detonation and a resounding thud as the Tsar ’s back broke. He saw the great ship crack in half, and the rapid expulsion of gas made the little remaining skin at the stern begin to deflate. Flames were still climbing four or five hundred feet into the air.

No one could have survived that, Hawke thought. Burning bodies and huge chunks of flaming superstructure were falling into the fjord when he finally looked away. He closed his eyes and lay back against the bearskin.

“Listen,” Stefan said, bending over him. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, dear boy, and I’ve got to get you to a doctor as quickly as possible. Dalaro’s large enough to have at least an emergency trauma center. I think the fastest thing is to take the speedboat back to the town dock. Have an ambulance meet us there.”

“Let’s go,” Hawke murmured, raising his head to look at Halter, his voice very weak, beginning to go.

“Alex, there’s no way you can make it through the woods all the way back to the boat. I’m going to get the boat and bring it around to this part of the island. Then we’ll get you down the trail somehow. Just lie here and rest. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

“Thank you for…for…” Hawke whispered. He wanted to thank the man for saving his life but couldn’t summon the strength. He let his head fall back against the bearskin, listening to the crunch of snow as Halter quickly made his way down through the woods to the water. He looked up into the whirl of falling snowflakes, trying to focus on just one. Focus. He needed focus.

The president. Had to call the president. Tell him the threat had been blown away. He still had his phone? Where? He patted himself down, feeling all of his pockets.

After a few moments, he dug his hand inside his blood-soaked trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile. He wiped some of the blood away from the keypad with his sleeve and held the thing unsteadily right in front of his face. He needed to call the president. Now. Tell him the Tsar was dead. That the immediate danger was over. The Beta, the football, gone. His message light was blinking. Maybe the president had called him. Yes. That’s what had happened.

He punched the code to get his messages.

He held the phone to his ear.

“Alex? Darling? It’s me. Oh, I do wish you’d pick up one of these times. We haven’t spoken in so long, and I’ve so much to tell you. First of all, I love you with all my heart. Madly, deeply, truly. But you already know that, of course. And now, the news. I saw a doctor here in Stockholm this morning, a baby doctor, you know, and he did a sonogram. We have a beautiful healthy baby on the way, darling. And they can even tell the sex! Do you want to know? Now? Or should I wait and tell you in person later tonight when I see you at the ceremony? Oh, I’ve been so torn about it all day. What to do, what to do? Oh, I do have to tell you, I must, or I’ll just burst. Ready? It’s a boy, Alex. I’m going to have your son, darling! Isn’t that the most wonderful news in the world? I love you so very much. I can’t wait to see you tonight. I do hope you’re still coming. I love you, Alex Hawke. We have our whole wonderful lives in front of us, darling. I’m so happy. Good-bye.”

HAWKE HEARD THE guard dogs first. The guards themselves were right behind them. Flashlight beams crisscrossed wildly over his head as they all crashed through the woods toward him, shouting furious directions in Russian. He rolled over and grabbed the Bizon, shoved in a fresh magazine, and racked the slide. He waited until he could see the eyes of the snarling dogs tearing through the woods right toward him, and then he started firing at everything that moved, his eyes blurred with tears.

The treasure hunter had been down too long; the air in his lungs was nearly exhausted. He’d been diving the wreck most of the day. Free diving, without tanks, since the wreck lay in fairly shallow water, only down about twenty feet or so. Besides, he’d never much cared for canned air. The water was pellucid this time of day, and shafts of sunlight streaked down through the blue, dappling the sand and coral.

The wreck, what was left of it, was lying on its side, surrounded by tunnels and small caves, home to parrotfish and grouper, all of them come out to dine. They hovered nearby, hoping for any delicious morsels, worms or tiny crustaceans, that might float their way in the clouds of sand stirred up by his digging.

There are more than three hundred fifty documented wrecks ringing the island of Bermuda, and he’d visited a few, the Hermes , the Iristo , and the Mary Celestia. This one was undocumented and not much prized by tourists or historians, but there was treasure here, there had to be. He’d begun the exploration earlier in the day, with high hopes and great enthusiasm.

But he was tired now, early hopes had faded, and this would be his last dive. He thought he saw something, a brief glimmer, but a school of bright blue-and-yellow surgeonfish fluttered by his mask, obscuring his view. When he looked again, nothing. A fluke of light, perhaps, that’s all it had been.

Moments earlier, kicking his way along the hull, he’d been keenly aware of a rather large barracuda. The fish, sleek as a blade, was hanging motionless, staring at him with one white-rimmed black eye, his jaw agape and filled with ragged, needle-sharp teeth. Barracudas always gave him the creeps, and he was relieved when the big fellow moved on.

His lungs burning for air, the diver willed himself to stay down longer. There was one area at the bow he’d not yet searched, and he was just pushing along the bottom in that direction when he saw a flash, something protruding from the sand, out of the corner of his eye. Feeling a tingle of excitement, he pushed off the bottom and swam to his right.

The treasure he sought was partially hidden. The only reason he’d spied it at all was a random streak of sunlight. It lay beneath a long, thick timber, half buried in sand. He shot his hand forward toward the glitter, and his fingers closed around it.

He kicked hard for the surface, lungs afire.

A FEW SECONDS later, his clenched fist broke the surface. His head followed, and he pushed his dive mask back on his forehead. Grinning widely, he raised his balled fist aloft in triumph. After many long hours of free-diving the wreck, by God, he’d bloody well got his treasure.