Clive Cussler: The Eye of Heaven

Vidar’s head poked out beside him, and then, slowly, the crew moved the sail aside, the men pausing as a group to take in the vast expanse of the Arctic wasteland. The captain scanned the surroundings and then squared his shoulders.

“All right. The worst is behind us. Form an exploratory party, and let’s take the measure of this place while we have a break in the weather. Report back before dark. I want to know what we’re facing.”

Vidar turned toward the men, his face stoic, his jaw set with resolve. “Thirty of the best archers among you. Gather your bows and swords, and take sufficient provisions for the day. We depart as soon as ready.”

The crewmen scrambled, energized at the chance to finally get off the ship, and there was much good-natured argument over who was the better bowman and thus more deserving of the duty. After a brief outfitting, the Vikings tromped through the fresh snow, a slow line of shaggy forms moving toward the glacier, searching for a route to ascend from the water’s edge. Finally Vidar cried out and pointed to a narrow gap in the ice where a jagged outcropping of rock jutted from the steep face. The column diverted to the promising area before disappearing, one by one, from view.

Dusk had darkened the sky when the captain saw Vidar’s familiar red beard approaching across the ice, returning from the gap, trailed by the plodding archers. When Vidar arrived, he gave the captain a curt nod, and the two men moved to the stern of the ship, where they could converse privately.

“We went for hours. It’s nothing but ice. Didn’t see even a bird.”

“It can’t be endless. What about the surroundings?”

“There are mountains in the distance on either side. I think our only chance is to try to reach them tomorrow. Where there’s land, there will be life, and, if we’re lucky, we can hunt something down and return with it.”

The captain considered his mate’s words.

“Very well. At first light, form two parties. Forty men in each. You take one, I the other. Split up and we’ll make our way off the ice in opposite directions. That will improve the odds of at least one of us finding food. We’ll leave the rest of the men with the ship.”

The following morning, the men set off at dawn, a long file of brave warriors with no enemy to vanquish but cold and hunger. Once they were on the glacier’s surface, the captain clasped a strong hand on Vidar’s shoulder and embraced him.

“Good luck to you. May your game bag be brimming by day’s end,” he said.

“And to you as well. When we’ve hunted all we can carry, we’ll return to the ship.”

The captain nodded, looking deep into Vidar’s eyes. Both men knew that their future was uncertain, with no guarantee of anything ahead but misery and starvation. But they were Vikings and they would forge ahead until there were none left standing. The captain took a bearing on a far peak and pointed, his voice measured and strong.

“Onward, men! There are streams of clear water and fat elk eager to make your acquaintance. Let’s not force them to wait.” And with that, he took the first long steps toward the distant mountains, moving with the grace of a predatory cat, leading as he always had, with the confidence of one born to the task.

The Bermudez rocked lazily in the mild swells of the azure sea, tugging at her anchor chain like an overexcited dog on a short leash. The ninety-six-foot steel-hulled expedition boat was more stable than most vessels her size, and she gave the appearance of a commercial fishing trawler rather than a marine archaeology ship. A small red-and-white dive flag bobbed thirty-five yards off her stern.

Bubbles frothed to the surface near the oversize aft dive platform as Remi Fargo emerged from the deep. Water coursed from her black wet suit as she hauled herself up the partially submerged ladder. She pushed her dive mask up on top of her head and reveled in the warmth of the summer sun on her face. Dropping back into the water, she slipped out of her buoyancy control system vest. Sam Fargo padded across the deck and down the steps to her position, pausing for a moment to appreciate her beauty before offering a grin and reaching out to help with her fins and gear.

“And who might this vision of loveliness from the sea be? A mermaid, perhaps? A siren?” he asked playfully.

She eyed him with skepticism and swatted his bare chest. “Are you getting fresh with me?”

He shrugged. “I figured flattery was never a bad option.”

“You’ll go far, young man. You have a bright future.”

Sam lifted the BC harness with a strong, slightly sunburned arm, the rigid lines of muscle barely strained by the forty-pound rig. “You find anything more?”

“Nope. I think we’ve cataloged everything.” More bubbles disturbed the surface, and then another head popped out of the water. “I see Dominic’s arrived.”

The second diver pulled himself onto the platform and shed his tank and gear. Closely cropped black hair slightly fringed with gray topped his lean, swarthy face. He smiled at them and gave a thumbs-up.

“I think we’re done, no?” he asked, more a statement than a question. As captain of the ship and the leader of the Spanish team of divers chartered by the University of Seville to explore the shipwreck a hundred thirty-five feet below, it was Dominic’s call. He deferred out of courtesy to his two American colleagues, who were renowned treasure hunters. They had originally discovered the wreck and reported it to the Spanish Department of Maritime History. Sam and Remi’s research had concluded that it was probably a seventeenth-century merchant ship that had sunk in a winter storm. It was lying buried in the silt on a ledge, beyond which the seafloor dropped off sharply. The shipwreck had turned out to be the type of vessel in question, and a group of divers and marine archaeologists had been dispatched, with the Fargos assisting in exploring the ship to determine its historical significance.

“Sure looks like we’re finished,” Remi agreed as she ran her fingers through her hair, faint bronze highlights shimmering as it began to dry. She unzipped the front of the wet suit and her hand unconsciously moved to the tiny gold scarab suspended from a leather thong around her neck. It was a new good-luck charm Dominic had presented to her in an elaborate display when they’d arrived. And good luck it had indeed brought — in spite of the depth, the dive had been a relatively easy one: a week in an idyllic location, doing what they loved. The captain was charming and the crew courteous and efficient. If only all of their adventures were so low-key, she thought, and turned to Sam. “Where can a girl freshen up around here?”

“Your cabin awaits. The champagne is on ice, the chocolates on the pillow,” Sam said with a small bow.

“Knowing you, you drank the champagne and wolfed down the candy,” she teased.

“I’m an open book to you, aren’t I? What was the giveaway?”

“The brown smear on your chin.”

The low rumble of powerful diesel engines reached them from across the water, and they turned to watch a large white private yacht cut its power as it neared to within two hundred yards. Remi peered at the transom, but the name and home port were blocked by a long row of dive tanks in a custom-made rack.

“Any closer and we’d be buying each other jewelry,” Sam said as they continued to observe the vessel.

“Big, isn’t it?” Remi remarked.

“Probably a hundred fifty feet at least.”

“Lot of tanks. Looks like they’re serious about their diving.”

A crew member moved to the bow of the opulent craft and, moments later, the anchor dropped, its long chain rattling as it lowered into the sea. Two and a half miles away, the rugged coastline jutted into the summer sky; nearer was the Isla de Las Palomas, with its fleet of pleasure boaters and small yachts out for day trips from the nearby marinas. A polar-white cruise ship inched into the Cartagena harbor, a popular port for many Mediterranean cruises.