I looked around. We had four commandos left, plus Lord H.; the rest, including the wounded, had already been flung off by the eel’s thrashing. I prayed they’d survived. In time, they might be picked up by a rescue party—there was likely one on the way—but for now I had to rescue myself.
“Okay,” I muttered. “New strategy.”
A rope slapped up against me: a piece of the rigging knocked loose by the commotion. Taking a deep breath, I let go of the rail and grabbed the rope instead, jumping as high as I could. I started swinging like a pendulum . . . and I scrambled farther upward for fear the low point of my arc would smack me into the deck. Following the great swashbuckler tradition, I swung across the width of the schooner—above the haunts’ heads and the giant eel—straight into the ratlines of the ship next door, a sturdy Spanish galleon. The galleon wasn’t perfectly stable, being rocked by waves from the nearby eel. Still, I wasn’t in immediate danger of being propelled into the ocean or worse. I deemed that a great improvement.
Lord H. and the commandos saw my escape. The eel’s crazed frenzy had torn loose plenty of ropes besides the one I’d just used. In fact, the beast’s struggle was wreaking havoc on everything: the schooner’s rigging, its yards, the tattered bits of sailcloth still attached to the masts. Our men had their choice of a dozen untethered ropes as lines flew in all directions. Grabbing a length of hemp as it whipped past was no easy feat, but the men of
Unauthorized Intervention
were experienced sailors. Within seconds, they’d all followed my lead and were perched with me in the comparative safety of the galleon’s shrouds.
Not a moment too soon. Showing monstrous strength, the eel bore down and slowly lifted upright. Its head was still jammed through the deck. As the eel straightened up, the schooner came with it, stuck on the creature’s head like a hat. The few haunts remaining on deck plummeted into the sea as the ship turned completely upside down. It seemed as if the eel struck a pose for a second—its body upraised, wearing the schooner like an awkward fedora. Then the eel and slave ship plunged beneath the waves, vanishing into the depths.
“Well,” said Lord H. beside me, “that’s something you don’t see every day.”
10
THE SARGASSO SEA: ON THE CARTHAGINIAN TREASURE SHIP
We reached the Carthaginian galley with no further difficulties. True, we had to shoot more haunts and sweep them into the Misty Tendrils of Doom . . . but there were no more giant eels, and the zombies came at us in manageable numbers: no more than a handful at a time.
My greatest challenge was keeping a straight face as we crossed the Nazi destroyer. I mean, really: do other people keep running into undead storm troopers? Am I the only woman being stalked by the Third Reich? Where does one go for a restraining order? When I visit my club in London, I freely describe my run-ins with yetis, T. rexes, and wraiths—other members can sympathize. But if I talk about Nazis, there’s only laughter or embarrassed silence. “Lara, dear, aren’t you past that yet? Nazis are so mid–twentieth century. You’ve got to move on.”
I decided the next time I went to my club, I’d pretend the Sargasso Nazis were really Satanist skinheads from a drug cartel—opponents I could discuss without feeling ridiculous.
Our shooting undoubtedly let Urdmann know we were in the neighborhood. Urdmann’s flunkies had firefights of their own—from time to time, we heard the
trrrrrrr
of Uzis blasting unknown targets. I caught myself imagining Urdmann being eaten by a giant eel . . . but no matter how much I liked the idea, it wasn’t something I hoped for. In a world where Unreason reigned, having Urdmann disappear into an eel’s stomach didn’t guarantee the villain would be gone forever. I had to put down the mad dog myself, as permanently as possible.
I also had to retrieve the bronze leg. If I left the thing here, it would only cause trouble: more undead, more giant eels—and how long before some luxury cruiser with hundreds of passengers wandered into the danger zone? Better to procure the leg myself. I could then hand it over to Bronze. Once the parts fused with the rest of the android, they seemed to stop harming their surroundings. At least, Father Emil and the rest of the Order showed no signs of mutation. Perhaps detached bronze parts leaked energy at random, but reconnection put them safely under the metal man’s control.
We jumped to the treasure galley’s deck from an adjacent pleasure yacht—an overglossy wooden craft from the 1950s that had been occupied by middle-aged businessmen zombies in ragged velour smoking jackets and bikini-clad undead party girls. I was glad to put such tackiness behind me . . . and glad I’d have a chance to find the leg before Urdmann arrived. “Lord Horatio,” I said, “could you and your men wait on deck for the enemy? Set up whatever ambush you like. I’ll go below and get the leg.”
“On your own, my dear? Permission denied. At the very least, the leg will be guarded by undead Carthaginians. And what if you come up against a giant barracuda or a fire-breathing killer whale?”
“Fortunately,” I said, “giant barracudas and fire-breathing killer whales can’t fit in the hold of a trireme. I mean, look at this thing.”
The galley wasn’t imposing. It was about as wide as a city bus, and twice as long, with tightly packed seats along both sides, arranged at three different heights. One man and one oar per seat . . . with precious little space for either. A wooden carport-style roof ran above the rowers’ heads—not to protect them from rain but from arrows that might shower down upon them. The roof also offered a place for fighters to stand if the ship was carrying troops to board other vessels.
Apart from the roof and the rowing area, there wasn’t much to the ship. On the bow was a battering ram at water level, intended to smash holes in enemy boats. At the stern was a small poop deck, home to the man who held the rudder and the chap who banged the drum that kept the oarsmen synchronized.
The only way to go belowdecks was a hatch in the poop. I expected it led to a storage area just big enough to hold a few days’ food and water. Galleys like this weren’t meant to carry cargo; they were fast attack ships, built for speed and ramming. In a typical naval invasion, you sent your triremes ahead to deal with enemy defense vessels and maybe to establish a beachhead. Then, when the way was clear, you could move in your main troop carriers and all your cargo boats hauling supplies.
Since galleys were designed for speed, a trireme didn’t have much below the waterline—just the bare minimum required for stability. They had none of the amenities we usually associate with seagoing vessels: no kitchen, no infirmary, no sleeping quarters. Most nights, a trireme put into shore and the men set up camp on land. If that wasn’t possible, rowers slept in their seats while officers bunked wherever the deck had room.
Considering this lack of space, I expected the galley’s “treasure vault” would be nothing more than a wooden chest stuffed into a cubbyhole. Any guards protecting the loot would be crammed into an area no bigger than an airplane’s washroom. Dealing with them would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
I explained all this to Lord H. He glowered but didn’t intervene when I went to the poop-deck hatch. First things first: I drew a pistol and attached a silencer to keep noise to a minimum; Urdmann knew by now he had company, but why ruin all chance of surprise by giving away our exact position? Once I was ready, I knelt, gun in hand, and drew the hatch open.
No flurry of arrows flew up from below—just a sharp briny smell, intense enough to be noticeable despite the general saltwater odor of the ocean. Water sloshed in the dark beneath . . . not unusual for a vessel like this. Wooden ships always leak a little; the lowest level inevitably has bilgewater, no matter how hard the crew pumps or bails. If it’s only an inch or two, the boat is doing fine.
Cautiously, I turned on a Maglite torch I’d brought with me. The space below was as small as I’d thought: adequate for a two-person sauna, but not much else. A foot of water slopped on the floor, moving as the galley rode the waves. Beyond that, the cubbyhole was empty—not a single box or barrel and certainly no haunts or monsters. So where was the bronze leg?
I grabbed the edge of the hatch, preparing to lower myself. Lord H. gave me a don’t-you-dare look. “It’s clear,” I said. “Honestly. Not a thing in sight.”
“Not a thing in sight doesn’t mean clear,” he replied.
“I’ll be careful,” I told him, then jumped down before he could say more.
A lot of vile things can hide in a foot of dark water . . . but nothing snaked around my ankle or tried to chew my toes. The worst danger seemed to be gagging on the stale salty air—a thick unpleasant stink. I wrestled my queasy stomach under control and shone the light around to see if there was some concealed niche not visible from above.
There was: a floor-level panel in one wall, almost hidden by the water. Two thousand years earlier, it would have been hard to detect—designed to match perfectly with the rest of the bulkhead. Time and the sea had made the panel easier to spot; the wood had bulged and the seams were no longer the exact fit they’d once been. I got a pry bar from my pack—all archaeologists carry brute force—and popped out the panel with a minimum of unladylike exertion.
Behind was a long dark crawlway. It ran the length of the trireme, too far for my torch beam to show what lay at the other end . . . but I assumed the Carthaginians had built a secret treasure chamber at the far end of the ship. That’s where I’d find the bronze leg.
To get there, I’d have to creep on my back or my belly, nearly submerged in seawater, breathing only the foul-smelling air at the top of the passageway—air that regularly disappeared when the wave-rocked ship rolled beyond a certain angle. Anywhere along the way, sea life in the water might make my life difficult. Even ordinary jellyfish could plague me with stings, the usual ocean predators could take a bite out of me, and if I met some kind of mutant . . .
I sighed. At least there wasn’t space for a fire-breathing killer whale.
“Need some help?” Lord H. called down.
“Thank you, no. This is a one-person job.” I doubted if any of the commandos could even fit in the shaft to the vault; they were big tough men, substantially larger than the average Carthaginian circa 146
B.C.
Modern nutrition made us giants compared to our ancient ancestors. Even
I
might find the going snug . . . and, please, no churlish comments about my personal proportions.
I decided to travel on my back. That would make it easier to breathe: just stick my nose up into the airspace. It also meant I’d enter the treasure room faceup instead of with my eyes turned down toward the floor. I liked that idea; if anything tried to attack me, I’d see it coming.
On the other hand, there’s a reason why babies creep on all fours rather than sliding on their backs. The human body can travel on hands and knees a lot easier than the other way up, especially in confined passageways. That was something I’d learned the hard way on spelunking expeditions, nearly getting stuck on several occasions. But the passage through the trireme’s belly wasn’t a cave formed by natural processes, with all the resulting constrictions and twists. This passage was built purposely to let priests worm their way to the treasure room; it might be claustrophobically narrow, but it still ought to be navigable. I crossed my fingers that the high priest had been some fat old man who told the shipbuilders to give him plenty of clearance.
Bilge sloshed around me as I lowered myself to the floor. The water temperature was tolerable—this part of the Sargasso benefited from warm equatorial currents—but I was instantly soaked to the skin. Tsk. My clothes would end up with unsightly salt stains. How embarrassing.
With pistol in one hand and Maglite in the other, pushing my little backpack ahead of me, I threaded myself into the passageway arms first. Reluctantly, I turned the light off; much as I liked to see my surroundings, the glow might alert undead guards of my approach. Better to make my way stealthily. At least I didn’t have to worry about being absolutely silent—with the creak of the ship and the splash of the sea, any noise I made would be lost in the general hubbub.
I thrust my way into the darkness, propelling myself by leg power: the soles of my feet on the floor, pushing backward. Once I was fully inside the passage I could only bend my knees halfway, making it impossible to get a really good shove. Luckily, I didn’t need much strength. The water wasn’t deep enough to float me off the floor, but it buoyed me sufficiently to take most of my weight. Featherlight, I walked myself down the lightless tunnel, willing my brain not to think of all the things that could go wrong.
The worst part was trying to breathe. The piercing salt stench stunk so badly, I breathed through my mouth instead of my nose . . . but with the blackness of the shaft and the rolling of the waves, I had difficulty telling when there was actually enough air to grab a good inhalation. I ended up spluttering on several occasions when I timed the ship’s movements incorrectly. Salt water in the lungs is nasty; it burns like a fist of hot coals.
But slowly I slid toward my goal, still pushing my backpack ahead of me. Though I couldn’t see, I could gauge my progress by touch: wooden ribs ran across the shaft’s roof every foot and a half—that distance the Egyptians called a cubit. I counted sixty cubits before a change in the water echoes told me I was nearing the passage’s end. This was the bow of the boat, home to the trireme’s greatest weapon: the ship-smashing battering ram. In Carthaginian times, most such rams had been clad with bronze for strength and puncturing power . . . but it would have been normal bronze, not the arcane stuff I’d come here to fetch.
First my backpack, then my hands slipped out into open air: the treasure vault. Time for a dramatic entrance. Never letting go of my gun or Maglite, I hooked my hands on the edge of the passage’s mouth and pulled with every ounce of muscle. I scooted out of the hole like an auto mechanic on one of those trolleys used to get under a car’s chassis . . . or perhaps more accurately, like someone zooming headfirst down the last stretch of an amusement park waterslide.
As I popped out I flicked on the torch, holding it at arm’s length from my body just in case. That proved to be a wise precaution. Something slashed down, aiming at the light: a thick green metal blade. I let go of the torch and rolled away. Water surged around me, slowing my movement, but I managed to bring up my pistol and fire.
Phut, phut
—the sound of silenced bullets. My shots were so wild I missed my opponent, but muzzle flash succeeded where my aim had failed. The flash was substantially reduced by the silencer, whose job was to decrease the speed of gases erupting from the gun; but even a stifled flash was bright to a haunt who’d spent two millennia in darkness. My opponent screamed like he’d been stabbed in the eyes and flailed out wildly with his weapon.
He was still targeting the Maglite. It had fallen in the water and was now casting wavery beams through the bilge. Its light showed a small chamber the same size as the one at the stern—a chamber I now shared with an undead man in green-rusted helmet and breastplate. He wore nothing but the armor; any other clothes he’d possessed must have rotted centuries earlier. His body was rotting too, especially his lower legs, which were in constant contact with the sea. The flesh down there was a wet puffy white, like that of a drowning victim’s. It looked ready to burst.
The haunt moved stiffly on those bloated legs. His weapon was a cross between an ax and a sword, a cleaver that looked able to chop me in two despite its coating of rust. The haunt never got the chance. I shot the cleaver out of his hand . . . by which I mean I shot the hand itself, which snapped off at the wrist. Two more bullets (
phut, phut
) into the zombie’s knees—the puffy flesh spewed ooze—and my opponent toppled into the water. It took me a few moments to find the cleaver he’d dropped . . . a few more moments to detach the undead hand from the cleaver’s handle . . . then a very unpleasant thirty seconds to cleave the guard into a sufficient number of pieces that he ceased to be a threat.
Only then did I begin searching for the bronze leg. It wasn’t much of a search. The treasure vault was smaller than my closet—smaller than my butler’s closet, smaller than my butler’s valet’s pet basset hound’s closet—and its only feature, besides chunks of dead guard, was a water-soaked chest attached to the bulkhead. Under other circumstances, I would have teased open the lock using delicate laboratory instruments . . . but with Urdmann on his way I couldn’t waste time, so I just had a go with my pry bar.