Sea of Greed

“Behind that one,” he said, indicating a three-engine transport that had once served Aeroflot and sat on its side with one wing down like a wounded bird.

Priya drove with great precision, especially considering someone else was working the gas. They ducked behind the tail of the old plane, swerving and missing the aluminum skin by less than a foot.

Up ahead, Joe noticed a huge Russian helicopter sitting flat on the ground with its aft door missing.

“In there,” Joe said. “That’s our spot.”

As Priya lined them up, Joe gave the vehicle a bump of gas and then took his foot off the pedal. They coasted forward, slowing as Joe reached over and put the transmission in low. They bumped up into the back end of the big military helicopter, still moving forward.

Joe couldn’t hit the brake pedal without flashing a bright red beacon that might tell everyone where they were, but he pulled hard on the hand brake, which wasn’t attached to the taillight sensor. It helped, but not enough.

They hit the wall separating the cockpit from the cargo bay with a solid thump. A blizzard of dust rained down upon them and the helicopter rocked back and forth several times. Priya turned off the engine and pulled out the key.

Turning around Joe looked for the other vehicles. “Hold your breath.”

“Will that help?” Priya said.

“We’re about to find out.”

Gazing through the back window, Joe saw the lights of two cars pass by in the distance and vanish, heading toward the perimeter.

“Now what?”

“We find a way to call for help,” Joe said.

52

NUMA VESSEL GRYPHON, IN THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA EAST OF CRETE

KURT STOOD in the wheelhouse of the Gryphon, an all-metal, ninety-foot boat with a raked nose, wide stance and oversized air intakes for the gas turbine engine that powered it.

They’d picked up the Gryphon in Crete after the overnight flight to the island. Fueling and loading had taken them through lunch and a couple hours on the water had put them over the wreck of the Dakar.

They’d encountered nothing to suggest danger, but Kurt had a feeling that wouldn’t last. And that’s why he’d chosen the Gryphon. Not only was the boat armored, it carried hidden weapon systems, was capable of tremendous speed and could be operated remotely — or even autonomously, if necessary.

For now, it sufficed to hold station against a moderate current while the ROV was descending.

“Passing eight thousand feet,” Paul said from beside Kurt, “fifteen hundred to go.”

“Picking up something on sonar,” Gamay said.

Kurt sat back, arms folded across his chest. “Make a high pass and then bring it around again, we need a full-scale picture.”

Paul tapped away on the computer keyboard and ordered the ROV to begin a forward and back pattern.

“Setting sonar on virtual,” Gamay said.

This would allow multiple sonar returns to be combined into one. A new image appeared on the right side of the monitor. It was soon filling with orange, gray and black details.

“Something isn’t right,” Gamay said. “Are we sure this is the right location?”

Kurt looked at the sonar image. He’d learned both how to interpret the images over the years and how to not overreact to their limitations. Sonar was a wonderful tool and it gave a picture of whatever it scanned, but it was easily obscured or distorted by changes in water temperature, salinity and even the angle at which the sonar beam hit the object in question.

That said, the image on the screen didn’t look much like a submarine.

“We’re in the right spot,” he said, double-checking their position.

“Keep descending,” Kurt said to Paul. “Let’s see what the cameras show when we get in range.”

It would be another five minutes before the lights from the ROV began picking up the bottom.

“Level off and maneuver east,” Kurt said, tracking the ROV’s location.

Paul used the computer to send the ROV on an easterly heading and the cameras began snapping high-definition photos of the seafloor and the scattered bits of wreckage.

There was little to see on the video feed.

“Lots of sediment floating by,” Gamay said.

Kurt nodded. He was waiting for a different image, one formed by the computer as it took the photos from the high-definition cameras and merged them digitally with the data from the sonar system.

It took a few moments for the image to be processed, but eventually a three-dimensional image of the entire wreckage field appeared. The colors were false to show contrast, but the image itself was crystal clear.

The reasons for the skewed sonar readings became obvious. The submarine was no longer in one piece. It had been cut into three sections, one of which had been dragged away from the others.

“Someone took it apart,” Gamay noted.

Detail on the largest section revealed scaffolding like a cage of metal bars. “They tried to raise it. Too heavy to do it in one piece, so they cut it into sections.”

“Did the Israelis do this?” Gamay asked.