David Gibbins - The Mask of Troy

‘Okay. Let’s get this topside. In that current, we’re in for a joyride. I can’t imagine anything worse than dropping this.’

‘Roger that. I’ll advise Seaquest II. Over.’

Jack activated the autopilot to maintain position three metres above the sea bed while he closed the basket down. He could already sense the pull of the current, edging both of the Aquapods beyond the stern of the minelayer wreck. He extended the upper cage over the basket, lowering it until the plastic wrap cushioned the shield on both sides and he could see only a rim of beaten gold sticking out. It was as secure as he could make it. He heard the rumble of ship’s engines in the water and looked up, seeing nothing but a dark blue haze. Costas edged his Aquapod alongside. ‘Okay, Jack. Do you read me?’

‘Loud and clear. Over.’

‘I’ve just spoken to Macalister. Here’s the drill. That current’s becoming more serious, four, maybe five knots. We’re going to move apart, fifteen metres or so, then rise very slowly up into the current where it takes off about eight metres above us, and let it take us. Seaquest II has got us on sonar and they’re going to track us, maintaining position above. Once we rise above the current at about fifty metres’ depth, we’ll assess the situation, but we won’t ascend further until Seaquest II is overhead and the divers are in the water. Copy?’

‘Copy that.’ Jack took one last look at the wreck, staring at the rusting hulk of the minelayer over the ancient war galley, seeing that lion prow rising on the edge of the sand channel. He remembered that it was a war grave. A grave from two wars. He closed his eyes briefly, whispering the words he had spoken at every shipwreck he had excavated since finding a Viking longship in the ice off Greenland three years before: Han til Ragnaroks, ‘Until Ragnaroks’, the Old Norse hymn for passing warriors, that they should meet up again. He had only ever told Rebecca that he did this, and the reason why. His empathy for the past came at a price. He disliked excavating burials because he could feel the emotions of those who had stood by the graveside. And shipwrecks held the emotions of those whose final moments were imprinted here. But now he had said those words. He looked at the finds basket, at that rim of gold, and shook his head with astonishment. He was itching to return. What else would they find?

‘Jack. I’ve just had Macalister on the com again. He’s had a call from Maurice at Troy.’

‘I read you. Over.’

‘Apparently, it was mostly an attack of coughing. Macalister had a hell of a time making it out.’

‘That sounds promising. Sounds like Maurice has been down his hole again.’

‘Well, wait for it. You and Maurice might both be owing James a crate of whisky.’

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘You’ve found the Shield of Achilles. Kind of. Call it the ghost of the Shield of Achilles. And Maurice, with that palladion thing. It’s not that he’s found it, exactly, but it’s the same kind of thing. A ghost. As you say, that’s Troy for you. Never gives you exactly what you want.’

Jack felt his Aquapod tilt alarmingly, and he quickly pressed the buoyancy control handle to inject compressed air into the forward end of the pontoons, compensating for the extra weight of the finds basket out in front. He felt the submersible level out, and exhaled in relief.

‘Jack. You still with me? Over.’

‘Only just. James nearly lost his crate of whisky from me. The autopilot doesn’t like that weight at the front. I’m ascending on manual. Over.’

‘I never designed these as heavy-lift vehicles. But it’s another problem I can put Jeremy on to.’

‘Just give me a moment.’ Jack held the stick, then feathered the pedals to get as near to level as he could. On manual it was like flying a helicopter, with similar inherent instabilities that needed constant attention. He was having to ascend by bleeding air into the forward chamber in the pontoon, then quickly injecting a blast into the aft chamber to keep the Aquapod from tilting in the other direction, at the same time ensuring that both the port and starboard chambers were balanced. It was taking all of his attention, and his eyes were glued on the gyroscope and depth meter. He glanced out. The sea bed still seemed close, as if they were getting nowhere, but he knew that was an optical illusion, a function of the refraction of light through the Plexiglas that meant that everything outside looked thirty per cent larger. He glanced at the depth gauge. Ninety metres. He had achieved a modicum of stability with the controls. He glanced over and saw Costas in his Aquapod keeping a good distance away, about twenty metres to the north-west and five metres above him. The last thing they wanted was a collision. He pressed the intercom again. ‘Okay. So what’s he found? Over.’

‘He made his way along the tunnel. His team had dug out where the entrance collapsed yesterday and they’d shored it up with timber. Aysha’s arrived, by the way. She banned him from going anywhere near it, but he snuck back by himself over lunchtime.’

‘That’s my man,’ Jack said, eyeing his screen. He had no sense of lateral movement, of their horizontal speed. He looked down and caught his last glimpse of the shipwreck, a black smudge in the gloom far off to the right. Currents were always disconcerting, barely discernible without waymarkers unless you tried to fight against them, but sometimes alarmingly apparent if you veered away from your dive partner in a separate stream. They were rarely uniform, more like a swirl of tendrils weaving around each other, and this one was no exception. At any moment the two Aquapods might be drawn towards each other by forces they could never hope to counter with the water-jet engines. He could see that Costas sensed the danger too and had edged further off, at least thirty metres distant now. Jack looked up, and saw the dark form of Seaquest II ’s hull above. That was a relief. Macalister was a damned good captain. He remembered Lanowski’s model for the current, suggesting that they should be out of the main flow at about fifty metres’ depth. He glanced at the gauge. Sixty metres. Another ten to go. He tapped the intercom. ‘I’m listening. Over.’

‘Okay. Didn’t want to distract you. So anyway, Maurice goes down the tunnel, and reaches this mass of ancient masonry that’s fallen in such a way that it leaves a passage ahead. He sees those hieroglyphics on the wall. Other inscriptions. Different languages. That linear thing James was on about.’

‘Linear B,’ Jack exclaimed. ‘Fantastic.’

‘He says they’re like dedications. He says it’s like walking into UN Headquarters, as if lots of different countries have put in a plaque.’

Jack felt a lurch, like flying over a thermal in a light aircraft. He remembered Lanowski’s warning that the sea here would be like that, with different water density and temperature caused by the outflow from the Dardanelles, little patches of the Black Sea expelled from the strait that continued outwards into the Aegean, eventually to meld with the more salty Mediterranean. He looked at the gauge. Fifty-one metres. He suddenly lurched again, this time more alarmingly, the back of the Aquapod lifting up, followed by a violent juddering. He saw only a yellow blur in the direction of Costas’ Aquapod. He compensated for the tilt but could do nothing about the juddering. They had reached the top of the fast-moving current and were breaking into the calmer water above. The juddering was caused as they bounced and skidded along the top of the faster current, while being slowed down by the water above. He saw the basket in front of him shaking, and decided to gamble on a big blast into the buoyancy tank. The Aquapod jumped upwards, leaving his stomach somewhere below, and then he was free, coming quickly back to the level. The basket was still there. Costas’ Aquapod appeared close alongside him. ‘Everything okay? Over.’