Clive Cussler - The Eye of Heaven

Sam nodded. “No question the analysis is important. Let me put my thinking cap on and see if I can come up with a solution. I hate to just leave this to the elements while we wait for someone to get up here and take over the find. You radioed it in, right?”

“Yes. I’m waiting for a more detailed response,” Willbanks replied, “but the preliminary from the Canadians is that they’ll send a team as soon as possible. But that’s not as easy as it sounds. They’ll need to assemble staff and equipment, find a suitable ship, outfit it—”

“I know the challenges all too well. But it is what it is. We’ll make the best of what we have and figure something out,” Sam assured him.

Remi took Sam’s hand and pulled him toward the companionway that led to their stateroom. “Good night. Please make sure that they’re careful as they get more of the boat uncovered. Better to work slower and with greater care …”

“Message received,” Hall said. “Good night to you both as well.”

By three p.m. the next day, the longship was almost completely excavated. Sam and Remi were undertaking the more detailed work on the interior of the vessel, and they’d agreed to leave the ten corpses encapsulated in a thin layer of ice for preservation.

Remi tapped at the first of the wooden chests lined along both sides of the hull, where the oarsmen sat and which contained the only real storage on the ship other than a small compartment in the hull. They’d discovered the shattered mast lying in the center aisle, where it had been stowed, and only a few of the oars were still there — the absent ones probably used for firewood before the remaining crew had starved and frozen to death.

“Sam? Come here. I think I’ve got this one clear of ice,” Remi called.

Sam nodded from his position fifteen feet away, where he was chipping carefully with a hammer and chisel.

“You’re faster than I am,” he said as he moved cautiously toward her over the slippery deck.

Together, they pried open the top of the chest, and Sam set it carefully aside. Remi reached in and withdrew a small statue of a figure of carved obsidian.

“That doesn’t look Nordic,” Sam said from behind her.

She handed it to him wordlessly and retrieved a beautifully painted clay bowl. “This is … incredible. Look at the condition. It’s like it’s only a few weeks old. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

He took it from her and studied it. “Unbelievable.”

Wes Hall approached from where he was supervising the work clearing the bow. He eyed the bowl that Sam held but didn’t comment.

Remi lifted a pounded copper mask and regarded it with practiced scrutiny.

“Care to venture an opinion?” Sam whispered, unable to believe his eyes.

“Not an opinion,” she answered in a voice that betrayed shock. “None of it’s European. All of these artifacts are pre-Columbian.”

“Are you suggesting Aztec?” Hall said skeptically.

Remi shook her head. “I’m no expert on pre-Columbian art, but I’ll bet a bottle of fine cognac that’s where they came from a thousand years ago. I’d have to guess the Olmecs, Toltecs, or Mayans. Perhaps another culture from Middle America. This predates the Aztecs, I think.”

“What are they doing on a Viking ship in the Arctic?” Hall asked.

Sam shrugged. “I can’t begin to guess.”

Remi continued inventorying the contents of the chest, noting the number of statues within, most covered with glyphs. This was a treasure trove beyond their comprehension — not of gold or silver coins, but proof that the Vikings had traveled the coast of America and been in close contact with the native groups there. When she was done, she carefully photographed all of the items for future study and replaced them in their original resting places in the chest. Sam returned to the box he’d been working on, and when he’d cleared enough ice from the plain wooden container, he pried the top up.

“More of the same,” he said, holding aloft a delicately crafted orange ceramic urn before giving it to Remi.

The afternoon passed quickly as they opened two more chests, which contained more ancient pre-Columbian artifacts as well as some of the oarsmen’s personal effects. Deep in the ship’s hold, Sam discovered a heavy stone slab with carvings ringing the edges — a Viking rune stone. Fairly common across Scandinavia, this one was smaller than those used as primitive grave headstones, but neither Sam nor Remi could read the ancient Norse writing, so they photographed it and earmarked it for more detailed examination later. By dinnertime, they had discovered a wealth of artifacts that made it obvious that the ship was a find that would change history.

Sam and Hall agreed to temporarily halt the excavation on the longship now that the scope of the discovery was evident. They spent a half hour on the radio with excited staff from the Canadian Archaeological Association and Waterloo University, as well as the Canadian Historical Association in Montreal. Everyone agreed that an expedition would need to be mounted immediately and that the site couldn’t be left unattended, given the importance of the artifacts. By the end of the discussion, Sam had made an agreement that he dreaded discussing with Remi, but there was no way around it.

“You did what?” she demanded, arms folded across her chest as she sat on the bed in their quarters, an expression of incredulity on her face.

“I volunteered us to spend some time camped out on the ice.” Before Remi could object, he added, “You saw what’s in those chests. There’s no way we could just continue on with the Alhambra knowing that’s there. Come on. I know you. And you know me. This is the kind of thing dreams are made of.”

Remi held her stern frown for a few more seconds and then relaxed, unable to stay annoyed at her husband for very long. “You really owe me now. It’s bad enough to be stuck on this sardine can, but now I have to camp on a glacier? There isn’t enough spa time in the world to make up for that.”

“Wes says he has special tents that are insulated. And propane heaters. It won’t be as bad as you think,” Sam said, and then reconsidered that tack. The words sounded stupid to him even as he uttered them. Of course it would be that bad. It was five below and they’d be on the ice for at least a week, maybe more. “But no question that I owe you. Anything you can imagine, I’ll do.”

“Anything?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m going to remember that.”

The next morning Sam and Remi watched as the Alhambra backed away and broke free from its position in the ice with a series of staccato cracks. Behind them, a large silver insulated tent with reflective coating stood like a forlorn orphan — their new home, stocked with as much comfort as was available from the ship’s stores.

“At least refrigeration won’t be a problem,” Sam said.

“Silver lining to every cloud, huh?”

“When you get lemons …”

The ship reversed for another dozen yards and then executed a three-point turn so it could break through the new ice using its bow. They watched as it neared the narrow channel and then sailed out of sight, the fading rumble of its throaty diesel engines the sole trace of its passage other than a jostling trail of fragmented surface ice.

A silence settled over the fjord.

“Finally. I thought they’d never leave.”

“I know. The crowds drive me nutty,” Remi agreed.

“Stupid kids, with their music and parties and everything.”

“Maybe now I can finally get some work done.”

Remi absently fingered the gold scarab on her neck as an icy gust blew remnants of snow around their feet. Sam nodded and turned from the fjord’s mouth.