Simon Hawke - The Nautilus Sanction

They sat down and Drakov turned to the man on his immediate right, a thin, dark-eyed, evil-faced Sicilian with coarse black hair and the manner of a Medici poisoner. “This is Santos Benedetto, whose name will be known to you three `academicians.’ Santos, aside from myself, is the last surviving member of the Timekeepers. After our last meeting, in Zenda Castle, I encountered Santos in one of our old rendezvous places. He helped me to begin this venture.”

Benedetto gave them a dark stare and nodded. He wore 27th-century black base fatigues and a warp disc on his left wrist.

“Santos knows you three only too well,” said Drakov, smiling. Then he introduced Verne and Land to his second-in-command. “The gentleman beside Santos is Barry Martingale, late of the 20th-century American Special Forces. When I met Sgt. Martingale, he was pursuing a career as a mercenary soldier and being terribly underpaid. I offered to remedy that situation and he graciously accepted.”

The beefy, sandy-haired Martingale twitched his lips in what might have been a smile and said, “How do?” His mus cular frame was sheathed in khaki-sharply creased trousers and an African bush jacket. He had a pencil-thin moustache, a square chin and foggy gray eyes.

“The man on my left,” said Drakov, “is General Count Grigori von Kampf, late of the famed Imperial Black Hussars of Czar Alexander. Count Grigori comes of a colorful lineage. His father was a Russian aristocrat and his mother a Kirghiz Gypsy. We are old acquaintances and I could not embark upon my venture without him.”

Count Grigori was huge, with shoulders like a Goliath and a chest like a wine cask. A former cavalry officer, it was a wonder a horse could have been found anywhere large enough to support him. His hands were easily twice the size of Finn Delaney’s, and Delaney was not small. The lower half of Count Grigori’s face was hidden by a square, luxuriant beard and large handlebar moustaches curled out from beneath his nose. His hair, both on his head and on his face, was gray and curly and his eyes looked Oriental, dark as anthracite. He still wore the uniform of an officer in the Black Hussars, a jet black tunic with ornate buttons and a stiff, high collar.

“Otchen priyatno,” he said, his voice a basso profundo.

“He says he’s very pleased to meet you,” Drakov translated. “Count Grigori has received the benefit of implant education, but he refuses to speak English. He considers it a barbarian tongue. He is, however, perfectly willing to converse in French, as well as Russian.”

Drakov turned to the last man. “And this is Toshiro Kamakura, Shiro, as we call him.” The tiny Japanese gave a little bow. He looked like a boy in his early teens, but his eyes were infinitely old. It was impossible to guess his age. “Shiro’s father was assassinated along with his wife for a transgression against the Yakuza, of which he was a member. Shiro survived by running away with his sister. He could not save both her and his parents, you see. To atone for the shame of running away, Shiro cut off the little finger on his left hand. To prevent himself from ever revealing where he had hidden his sister, he cut out his tongue. He then systematically tracked down each of his parents’ killers and dispatched them, quite efficiently and brutally. He was only fourteen at the time. He is seventeen now. I know what it means to grow up an orphan.

When I found Shiro, I took him in and educated him, so he could write and tell me where his sister was. She is now being well taken care of. Shiro is my most loyal and trusted aide. Do not let his youth deceive you. He is quite ruthless. I advise you to be polite to him.”

Shiro studied each of them in turn, gazing at them long and hard with an unblinking stare. His slight frame, his long, straight black hair hanging to his shoulders and his delicate features gave him an androgynous aspect, but those eyes were chilling. When he looked at Lucas, Priest suppressed an urge to glance away from that ophidian gaze. This child prevailed over Yakuza assassins, Lucas thought. Quite a group Drakov had gathered.

Finn echoed his sentiments aloud. “Looks like you’ve found a hell of a crew, Drakov.” He glanced around at the others, then at the Soviet submariners. “However, discipline seems a little lax.”

“On the contrary,” Drakov said. “These men are more efficient now than they were under their previous commander. They are more efficient because they have more freedom, because their initiative is rewarded and they are happier.”

“Thanks to re-education conditioning,” said Andre.

“Not entirely,” said Drakov. “It is true most of them needed to be, shall we say, deprogrammed from a lifetime of a different sort of conditioning, but you might be surprised to learn that a great many of them, far more than I expected, went along with me quite willingly. After all, I offered them far greater opportunities. Do not be misled by their appearance. There is a great deal more to military efficiency than uniformity, precision drill and polish. Look at history. The mighty empire of Rome fell to wild barbarians. The greatest armies in the world crumbled before the onslaught of Genghis Khan. Ragtag armies of colonials prevailed over the dress parade regimentation of the British.” He smiled. “My men may look somewhat piratical, but they know what they’re about.”

They were served their food and Verne gasped at the sumptuous repast. Roast beef, baked potatoes, yams, corn, cranberry sauce, ragout of pork, fruit preserves, fresh baked bread and steaming coffee.

“Amazing!” Verne exclaimed. “ I cannot believe these miracles I am assaulted with! However can you keep such food supplies fresh, Captain?”

“Freezing and refrigeration, Mr. Verne,” said Drakov. “This submarine is well stocked with food supplies. On board at present, we have some four thousand pounds of beef, two thousand of chicken, fourteen hundred of pork loin and one thousand of ham. We carry roughly three thousand pounds of sugar, twelve thousand pounds of coffee, one hundred fifty pounds of tea, eight hundred pounds of butter, twenty-two hundred of flour and some six hundred dozen eggs. There is also a considerable quantity of wine, vodka, whiskey, beer and ale on board, though my crew does not overindulge. I allow them all they wish to drink, but the penalty for being drunk on duty or incapacitated by the aftereffects of drink is twenty lashes, which Shiro administers quite adroitly. In addition to our supplies, we look to the sea for sustenance. Those are dolphins’ livers in that ‘pork’ ragout you are devouring, and that which you assume to be fruit preserves is derived from sea anemones.”

Land stopped spreading the preserves on his bread and looked at it with horror.

“Your vessel is a marvel, Captain,” Verne said. “I have a thousand questions to ask of you.”

“I have a few questions myself,” said Lucas.

“Yours shall have to wait, Mr. Priest,” said Drakov. “Mr. Verne, kindly ask anything you wish.”

Verne was flustered. “I don’t know where to start! I want to know everything!”

“And so you shall,” said Drakov. “This submarine is constructed of titanium, with double hulls, and it displaces almost twenty thousand-tons. It is some five hundred sixty feet long and its hull diameter is forty-two feet. It is capable of attaining speeds over sixty knots.”

“Impossible!” said Land.

“I assure you, Mr. Land, it is not only possible, it is effortless,” said Drakov. “We submerge by means of employing water as ballast, held in tanks between the hulls. Wings or diving planes, such as those you saw on the sail, enable us to dive or to ascend. Two rudders, one above the propellers, one below, control direction. We are equipped with two periscopes which can be raised when near the surface to allow us to observe without being seen and we are capable of going more than four hundred thousand miles without refueling, which would be sixteen trips around the equator.”