Atlantis

CHAPTER 22

For the first few metres Jack had to claw his way through the narrow confines of the tunnel where the lava had sagged over the entrance. He could feel his suit rip as he squeezed past the razor-sharp knots of lava. He glanced back to make sure the tape was undamaged and then set off rapidly down the tunnel, his arms extended forward and the torch shining directly ahead.

As he rocketed along he could sense the gradual incline where the lava flow conformed to the rising angle of the passageway. He flipped over and saw pools of luminosity on the ceiling where the oxygen from Costas’ regulator had collected. Almost exactly a minute after taking his last breath he popped his head into a pool that filled a fissure in the lava. He took three breaths in rapid succession, at the same time checking his depth gauge and breaking out a Cyalume chemical lightstick to leave floating in the bubble as a beacon for the others to follow.

“Three metres below sea level,” he said to himself. “A piece of cake.”

He ducked down and pushed off again into the passageway. Almost immediately it forked. He guessed that one passage would lead to safety and the other would follow the vent where the lava had blown through from the core. It was a life or death decision which would determine the fate of the other two.

After checking his compass Jack swam resolutely up the left-hand passage, exhaling slightly to prevent his lungs from rupturing as the pressure decreased. A shimmering lens of iridescence appeared before him, a surface too wide to be a pool of oxygen caught against the ceiling of the tunnel.

His lungs began to spasm as he scraped with increasing desperation through the narrowing folds of rock. As he pushed beyond the lava and broke surface he almost crashed his head against the rock ceiling. He gasped repeatedly, then staggered out of the water. He had reached sea level but was still deep within the volcano, the passageway ahead showing no sign of an exit as it continued to rise.

It had only been three minutes since he had left Costas and Katya but it seemed an eternity. As he fought unconsciousness he focused all his energies on the orange tape that emerged behind him, pulling again and again until it slackened in his hands and he lay still.

There was a huge eruption of spray as Costas hove into view, his body welling out like a surfacing whale. Katya followed seconds later and immediately began inspecting Jack’s wound, her face etched with concern as she saw the crust of blood which had oozed through the gash in his suit.

Costas ripped off his mask and breathed heavily, his dark hair matted to his forehead and his face puffed and red.

“Remind me to diet,” he panted. “I had a spot of bother with that final section.”

He struggled to the edge of the pool and kicked off his fins. Jack had recovered enough to raise himself on his elbows and was unscrewing the beam projector on his flashlight so the exposed bulb would cast a shadowy candlelight around them.

“Join the club,” he replied. “I feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder.”

Their voices sounded rich and resonant after so long on the intercom. Jack eased himself further up the slope and flinched with pain.

“I stowed Katya’s backpack just inside the tunnel,” Costas said. “There’s enough trimix left for two of us to buddy-breathe back to the submarine in case we need it. I also tied the end of the tape to the lightstick in that air pocket. If we have to go back we just remember to turn right at that fork.”

The water was peppered with tiny bubbles fizzing to the surface. They stared at it as they caught their breath.

“That’s odd,” Costas said. “Looks like more than just the remains of oxygen from the regulator. Must be some kind of gas discharge from that volcanic vent.”

Now they were all safely out they were able to look around their new environment. Up the slope was another rectilinear rock-cut passageway leading inexorably upwards, yet the view was oddly different.

“It’s algae,” Costas said. “There must be just enough natural light for photosynthesis. We must be closer to the outside than I thought.”

Now that the commotion in the pool had died down, they could hear the steady sound of dripping.

“Rainwater,” Costas said. “The volcano will be saturated after the storm. There’ll be a vapour plume the size of a nuclear explosion.”

“At least Seaquest should have no trouble finding us.” Jack’s words were laboured as he raised himself to his knees. The rush of oxygen had sustained him through the tunnel but now his body was working overtime to flush the remaining nitrogen. He staggered as he stood up, careful to avoid the slippery patches where the rainwater spattered around them. He knew his trial was not over yet. He had beaten the clock on his air supply but would now have to face much greater pain without the numbing frigidity of the water.

Jack saw the looks of concern. “I’ll be all right. Costas, you take point.”

Just as she was about to move, Katya glanced at Jack.

“Oh, I almost forgot.”

Her olive skin and sleek black hair glistened as the water trickled off it.

“That inscription on the lintel,” she said. “I had a look while we were waiting for you to get through. The first symbol was the Mohican head, the syllable at. I’m certain the second symbol was the sheaf of corn, al or la. I have no doubt the complete inscription reads Atlantis. It’s our final waymarker.”

Jack nodded, too groggy to speak.

They began to make their way up the slope. Now that they had discarded their breathing apparatus they no longer had the headlamps which formed part of the helmet assembly. The hand-held torches were designed as emergency strobe beacons, and using them continuously quickly drained the batteries. As they worked their way up the slope, the lights began to waver and fade in unison.

“Time for chemical illumination,” Costas said.

They pocketed their torches and Costas and Katya cracked open their lightsticks. Combined with the faint beginnings of natural light, the sticks produced an unearthly aura, a glow chillingly reminiscent of the emergency lighting they had activated in the submarine’s shattered control room.

“Keep close together,” Costas warned. “These things may last for hours but they barely light up the floor. We don’t know what to expect.”

As they rounded a bend in the passage, the acrid odour which had irritated their nostrils since surfacing suddenly became indescribably foul. A warm draught carried with it the sickly-sweet smell of decay, as if the dead of Atlantis were still putrefying in their sepulchre far below.

“Sulphur dioxide,” Costas announced, his nose crinkling slightly. “Unpleasant, but not toxic if we don’t stick around for too long. There must be an active vent nearby.”

As they continued upwards they saw where another lava tube had broken through, gushing its contents like spilled concrete over the tunnel floor. The lava was jagged and brittle but did not restrict their passage like the previous flow. The hole where it emerged was rent with a honeycomb of cracks and fissures, the source of the unholy wind that intensified with every step of their approach.

“These two lava tubes we’ve encountered are relatively recent,” Costas said. “They must have broken through since the flood, otherwise the priests would have had them cleaned out and the tunnel repaired.”

“There must have been similar eruptions during the time of Atlantis,” Katya said shakily. “This place is far more active than geologists ever suspected. We’re inside a time bomb.”

Jack had been fighting the pain, a pulverizing sensation that had grown as the numbing effect of the cold wore off. Now every breath was a vicious stab, every step an agonizing jolt that pushed him to the brink of collapse.

“You two go on. We must contact Seaquest as soon as possible. I’ll follow when I can.”

“Not a chance.” Costas had never seen his friend concede defeat, and knew Jack would force himself on until he dropped, whatever the odds. “I’ll carry you on my back if it comes to it.”

Jack marshalled his remaining strength and slowly, agonizingly, followed the other two over the lava, picking his way carefully across the jagged formations. Progress was easier as the sloping floor became a series of shallow steps. About twenty metres beyond the lava, the passageway curved south, the dimensions gradually losing their regularity as the walls gave way to the natural shapes of a volcanic fissure. As the tunnel constricted further, they began to climb single file, with Costas in the lead.

“I can see light ahead,” he announced. “This must be it.”

The elevation increased sharply and they soon found themselves scrambling on their hands and knees. As they approached the dim aura of light the algae made each step progressively more treacherous. Costas slithered over the final shelf and turned back to give Jack a hand.

They had come out beside a conduit some three metres wide by three metres deep, the sides smoothed by millennia of erosion. At the bottom was a shallow stream that seemed to plummet down a narrow canyon, the distant roar of water audible but their view completely obscured by a sheen of mist. To the right the conduit headed into the rock face with a glimmer of light beyond.

Costas peered at his console to check his altimeter.

“We calculated the height of the volcano before the flood at three hundred and fifty metres above sea level. We’re now one hundred and thirty-five metres above present sea level, only about eighty metres below the tip of the cone.”

Having penetrated the volcano on the north side, they were now facing due west, the shape of the passageways reflecting the incline of the upper slopes. Ahead of them the dark mouth of the tunnel seemed set to plunge back into the labyrinth, yet it could only be a short stretch before they reached open air.

“Be careful,” Costas said. “One wrong step and this chute will send us straight to hell.”

They had lost track of time since embarking in the DSRV from Seaquest the previous day. The jumble of rock was a twilight world of shadows and flickering shapes. As they negotiated a short flight of steps cut into the rock, the conduit became gloomier still, and they once again had to rely on the eerie glow from the lightsticks.

The tunnel followed the drift of the basalt, each successive layer clearly visible in the stratigraphy of the walls. The flow had undermined the gas-charged lava of the cone, the ash and cinders compressed like concrete with chunks of pumice and jagged scoriae embedded in the matrix. The higher they climbed, the more porous it became, with rainwater dripping through the clumps that protruded from the ceiling. The temperature was becoming noticeably warmer.

After about twenty metres the tunnel narrowed and funnelled the water flowing against them into a violent current. Jack stumbled sideways, his body suddenly convulsed with pain. Katya waded over to help him stay upright against the torrent which was now waist high. With agonizing slowness the two of them forced their way past the constriction while Costas forged ahead and disappeared into the veil of mist. As they staggered forward, the walls suddenly opened out again and the flow diminished to little more than a trickle. They rounded a corner and saw Costas standing motionless, his dripping form silhouetted against a background of opaque illumination.

“It’s a huge skylight,” he announced excitedly. “We must be just below the caldera.”

The opening far above was wide enough for faint daylight to reveal the awesome scale of the chamber in front of them. It was a vast rotunda, at least fifty metres across by fifty metres high, the walls rising to a circular aperture which framed the sky like a giant oculus. To Jack it was astonishingly reminiscent of the Pantheon in Rome, the ancient temple to all the gods, its soaring dome representing mastery over the heavens.

Even more breathtaking was the apparition in the centre. From skylight to floor was an immense column of swirling gas exactly the width of the oculus. It seemed to project the daylight straight down like a giant beam, a glowing pillar of pale light.

After gazing in awe for a moment they realized it was rocketing upwards at immense speed, giving the illusion that they themselves were hurtling inexorably downward into the fiery depths of the volcano. All their instincts told them there should be a deafening roar yet the chamber was eerily quiet.

“It’s water vapour,” Costas finally exclaimed. “So this is what happens to the rainwater that isn’t channelled out. It must be like a blast furnace down there.”

The increasing heat they had felt during the ascent was emanating from the chimney in front of them.

They were standing on the outer edge of a wide platform that ran round the rotunda several metres above the central floor. Evenly spaced doorways, identical to the one they had just emerged from, had been cut into the rock all the way round the perimeter. Each one was topped with the now familiar symbols. Beyond the inside edge of the platform they could just make out the central dais of the chamber. Backing onto the vapour column were four stone seats, each in the shape of bull’s horns and arranged at cardinal points of the compass. The one facing them was obscured by the platform but was clearly larger than the others, the tips of the horns reaching up towards the oculus.

“It must be some sort of throne room,” Costas said, awestruck. “An audience chamber for the high priests.”

“The hall of the ancestors. The funerary chamber. And now the audience chamber,” Katya murmured. “This must be our last staging post to the holy of holies.”

They had been in a state of constant high excitement, exhilarated by the thrill of discovery since leaving the submarine. Now as they confronted the very core of the volcano their exuberance was tempered with unease, as if they knew the ultimate revelation would not be yielded without a price. Even Costas faltered, reluctant to abandon the security of the tunnel and pitch himself forward into the unknown.

It was Jack who broke the spell and urged them on. He turned towards the other two, his face streaked with grime and his rugged features underscored by pain.

“This is where the text was leading us,” he said. “The sanctuary of Atlantis is somewhere here.”

Without further ado he pushed himself forward and limped ahead, his willpower the only thing keeping him from buckling. Costas walked alongside and Katya immediately behind, her face set impassively as they made for the lip of the platform.

Just as the throne began to come into view over the edge of the platform, they were blinded by a beam of light. They instinctively cowered and shielded their eyes. Through the glare they made out two figures that materialized to right and left.

Just as suddenly the light disappeared. As their vision cleared, they saw that the two figures were clad in black just like their assailants in the submarine, and each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 levelled menacingly from the hip. Jack and Costas raised their hands; they would have no chance of reaching their weapons before being cut down in a hail of bullets.

Ahead a flight of twelve shallow steps descended to the dais. A portable searchlight was aimed at them beside the stairs. A raised walkway led directly to the bull’s horn sculpture whose tips they had seen above the platform edge. It was the ostentatious backing for a massive stone seat, more ornate than the others.

The seat was occupied.

“Dr. Howard. A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Jack recognized the voice, the same drawling, guttural tone that had come over Seaquest’s radio from Vultura three days ago. He and Costas were pushed roughly down the stairs and the bloated form of Aslan came clearly into view. He was slouched on the throne, his feet planted firmly in front and his immense forearms draped over the sides. His pale and ageless face would have seemed almost like some priest of old were it not for the signs of rampant excess in his corpulent frame. With his billowing red robe and oriental features he seemed the epitome of an eastern despot, an image straight from the court of Genghis Khan, except for the thoroughly modern warriors on either side of him, each carrying a submachine gun.

Directly to Aslan’s right stood a diminutive figure at odds with the rest of the entourage. It was a plain-featured woman wearing a drab grey overcoat, her hair pulled back in a bun.

“Olga Ivanovna Bortsev,” Katya hissed.

“Your research assistant has been most helpful,” Aslan boomed good-naturedly. “Ever since she reported back to me I have kept your vessel under constant surveillance. I have been wanting to visit this island for a long time. Fortunately my men found a way up outside and into this chamber. It seems we arrived in the nick of time.” Suddenly his voice hardened. “I am here to claim lost property.”

Costas could restrain himself no longer and lunged forward. He was immediately sent sprawling as the butt of a gun slammed into his stomach.

“Costas Demetrios Kazantzakis,” Aslan said with a sneer. “A Greek.” He spat out the word contemptuously.

As Costas struggled to his feet, Aslan turned his attention to Katya, his dark eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth betraying the hint of a smile.

“Katya Svetlanova. Or should I say Katya Petrovna Nazarbetov.”

Katya’s look had changed to angry defiance. Jack felt his legs slip out from under him as his body finally gave in. Her reply seemed to come from somewhere else, from a shadowy netherworld disconnected from reality.

“Father.”