Mac nodded toward the cabin’s door and got them moving. “Let’s get this dumped outside before it blows up or something.”
Elena led the way, guiding with the flashlight. The beam lit the dark depths of the ship’s hold. Motion drew her eye to the roof. Large bronze hammers, hidden among the deck rafters, swung down on levered wooden beams. One after the other they slammed into the tall earthenware pots. The hammerheads punched holes in the sides. Cracks splintered outward from the impacts.
As she stood there, a black oily liquid flooded out of the giant pots, spilling across the curved bottom of the boat.
“Go, go, go!” Mac shouted.
Elena got moving again and rushed forward. As she crossed the ship’s hold, the flashlight illuminated phosphorescent green veins streaming through the black oil. There was an unnaturalness to that sheen. Definitely not whale oil.
This was confirmed when Nelson’s Geiger counter clicked even faster, matching the pounding of her heart.
“Christ, it’s glowing,” Mac said.
It took Elena another breath to understand. As the men passed with the radioactive box, the oil responded. The green veins shone with a sickly radiance, as if the emissions from the map were exciting an unstable component in the oil.
Elena slowed, but Nelson forced her from behind. “Keep moving!” he shouted. “Just get the hell out of here!”
“Wait,” she said. “Listen.”
Above the ticking of the Geiger counter, a strange sound echoed throughout the hold. She had heard it before. A quiet tapping. It seemed to rise from several of the pots now and sounded more like scratching—as if something was trying to claw its way out of those pots.
She stared back at the men. “What is—?”
A loud boom made her jump and swing around.
Across the hold, John fired his shotgun again.
Oh, no.
Mac set the box down. “You both stay here,” he warned and skirted low toward the crack in the hull.
Clutching the flashlight, Elena watched the toxic oil seep toward her. Despite the Geiger’s clicking, all she heard was that macabre scratching, like scabrous nails on a chalkboard. Goose bumps pebbled her arms. She did not know what they had triggered with that booby trap, but in her bones, she knew one certain truth.
We should not be here.
10:59 A.M.
Mac dropped flat next to John.
The Inuit elder loaded two more shells into the shotgun’s breech without looking down. His gaze remained fixed on the cascading flow of the neighboring meltwater channel. Multiple glows lit the icy depths, marking the presence of divers. Closer at hand, a dark body bled on the icy shore, outfitted in an insulated dry suit.
The bastards swam here.
Or at least, a forward assault party.
Mac heard the rev of an engine deeper down the channel, growing louder with every breath. Clearly others were coming, dashing any hope that John’s cousins had survived.
To either side of the channel, two of the underwater glows grew brighter. Black assault rifles rose low in the azure waters and strafed the side of the ancient ship. But the icy timbers held fast.
John blasted toward one of the snipers, but the shooter sank away, while the other focused his fire at the Inuit elder. Rounds peppered closer, ricocheting off the rocks. John rolled and aimed toward the source, but the second assailant was already sinking back into the depths. Elsewhere, another trio of lights brightened the water.
Mac knew the combatants could keep up this deadly game of underwater Whac-A-Mole until John ran out of shells. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Leave it,” he warned. “Save your ammo until it can do the most good.”
John grunted in acknowledgment as he reloaded.
Mac settled next to him.
Let’s see how this plays out.
Clearly these were not simply thieves. This team was too organized, too well outfitted.
The grumble of an approaching motor filled the tunnel. A black Zodiac pontoon boat sped into view—then hung in place in the current, hovering just at the edge of the meager light.
A bullhorn blasted from it.
“HAND OVER THE STORM ATLAS AND YOU WILL LIVE!”
Mac frowned. He pictured the gold map. Was that the Storm Atlas? If the attackers already had a name for it, they clearly knew far more about it than Mac’s group.
So, definitely not ordinary thieves.
This was further confirmed by the next command: “HAVE DR. CARGILL CARRY IT TO MY MEN.”
Mac flinched. How did the bastards know Elena was here?
“FOLLOW THESE SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS, AND ALL WILL END WELL.”
Yeah, right. Try telling that to John’s cousins.
“YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO DECIDE.”
A scuffle and scrape behind him drew his attention. Elena and Nelson came forward, hauling the map box between them.
“I’ll do it,” Elena said. “It’s not like we have much choice. They can easily take it if they want to.”
Nelson nodded. “We don’t have the firepower to stop them.”
Mac rolled to face the pair. “That atlas—or whatever it’s called—is the only reason they haven’t come in here guns blazing. They clearly don’t want to damage it. But once they have possession of it . . .”
“Then all bets are off,” Elena finished.
“Still, we can buy extra time by cooperating,” Nelson said. “Every minute we’re still breathing, we have a chance. Otherwise, we’re dead already.”
Mac considered this. If nothing else, the enemy seemed to want Elena, maybe for her knowledge, maybe because she was a senator’s daughter and they planned to use her as leverage. Either way, if the shit hit the fan, she might still live. And besides, Mac could think of no other solution. Especially with everything happening so fast. And maybe Nelson was right. With more time, he might think of something.
The bullhorn sounded a final warning. “TEN SECONDS!”
Okay, he definitely needed more than ten seconds—but one step at a time.
“Fine,” Mac conceded. “We’ll play along.”
For now.
11:12 A.M.
Elena struggled with the box as she crossed from the ship toward the water’s edge. The large map weighed at least seventy to eighty pounds, far too much for her to manage on her own, so Nelson had agreed to accompany her. Despite her terror, a corner of her mind dwelled on the mystery in her hands.
The Storm Atlas. Why was it called that? And how did these strangers know its name?
Curiosity tempered her terror—but only slightly.
As she and Nelson neared the meltwater river, a trio of divers rose from the icy stream. Assault rifles were fixed to their cheeks. Tiny lamps flanked their masks, shining brightly in the dim light.
The centermost figure approached. Once close enough, he waved his weapon’s barrel from Nelson to the ancient dhow. “Put down. Go now.”
“All right, all right,” the geologist mumbled.
She and Nelson lowered the map box to the rocky shore. The geologist gave her a worried look and retreated toward the dark shelter of the ship. As he did, the gunman aimed his rifle at her chest. He didn’t need to tell her to stay.
She stood, shivering.
One of the attackers, standing calf-deep in the current, lifted a wrist radio to his lips. She heard a smattering of what sounded like Arabic. Though fluent in a handful of dialects, she could not make out the man’s words due to the rumbling cascade behind her.