The Eye of Heaven

7

The thrumming of the twin diesel engines vibrated the entire ship as the Alhambra moved north into the Arctic Circle, plowing through the swells just off the northern coast of Baffin Island. The trip had been fruitful so far, and by the third day the ship had traveled a hundred sixty miles north of Clyde River. The team had surveyed four fjords, mapping the bottom and measuring the amount of shrinkage of the glaciers. The exploration had settled into a routine — up at dawn, under way within an hour, taking advantage of the daylight that seemed to go on forever.

The rpm’s dropped as the vessel approached the day’s target, a sliver of blue that faded into icy white before them. A row of mountains loomed on both sides like guardians over a barren, hidden kingdom at the top of the world. The surface of the sea began crackling as they neared the fjord, a thin skin of ice lingering even as spring grudgingly prepared to transition into summer.

Hall stood at the pilothouse windows while the helmsman beside him manned the wheel, pointing the cutter’s bow inland to follow the fjord wherever it might lead.

“Cuts through the ice like butter, doesn’t it?” Sam commented. He stood in front of a bank of monitors, where the computers recorded a host of measurements from the specialized instrumentation he’d provided.

“The secret’s a low-pressure air hull-lubrication system that drives air between the hull and the ice. It reduces the pressure on the hull and increases the vertical shear, so the ice cracks with far less pressure than on the old-style ships,” Hall explained as he raised his binoculars and studied the area ahead. “It looks like this forks off to the right. Let’s check the satellite footage again.”

Hall moved to a monitor and zoomed in on their location, the technician obligingly focusing on the yellow pulsing icon that represented their position.

“See that? The glacier up ahead used to come down another mile. You can see how it’s receded over time.” He peered at the screen. “What do you say, Connelly? You think we can squeeze through that channel?” he asked, tapping the screen with his finger.

The tech did a quick measurement on-screen and nodded. “Yes, sir. But it’ll be tight. This shows the gap at less than a hundred feet. One wrong move and we’ll be on the rocks.”

Remi mounted the stairs as they neared the gap. The ice thickened as they proceeded, and the base of the mountains loomed on either side of them.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” she said, admiring the incredible landscape and its wild beauty.

“That it is, that it is,” Sam said, keeping his eyes fixed on the screens.

“You aren’t even looking.”

“I saw it before, on approach. Now I’m earning my keep.”

She moved forward, a few feet from Hall, and watched as the ship drew near the gap.

“That looks awfully tight,” she said.

“It’s one of the reasons we’re using this dinghy instead of one of the big boys. Maneuverability,” Hall explained.

The ship eased into the narrow channel, the dark brown rock towering overhead only a stone’s throw from either gunwale, and the helmsman pulled back on the throttles even farther. And then they were through, into a long fjord ringed by sheer cliffs so tall they blocked all but the ambient light of the sun.

“See that? Looks like it stretches for another mile and a half and then ends where the glacier meets the water,” Hall said, gesturing ahead. “According to a study of satellite footage, a thousand years ago the glacier used to extend all the way to where we are now.”

“Well … that’s strange,” Sam said, leaning forward and studying the display. “The magnetometer. It’s going nuts.”

“‘Nuts’? Is that the technical term?” Hall asked.

“It’s just weird. The readings are all over the place. Like there’s something in the ice.” He stared at the readout.

“An ore deposit?” Remi asked.

“Not like any I’ve ever seen. I’m getting a signal fifty yards ahead that doesn’t indicate natural mineral readings. No, this looks like … It looks like a structure.”

“Out here?” Hall exclaimed. “Maybe an old fishing boat?”

“That’s unlikely,” Sam replied.

Hall asked, “Can you get a bearing on it?”

“Maybe forty-five yards now, fifteen degrees starboard.”

“Over by that rise in the snow?”

“Correct.”

“Helmsman. Go easy. Get us as close as you can, but don’t sink us.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The Alhambra inched forward, the crackling of the ice against the hull now becoming a groan, and then it ground to a stop. The helmsman backed off the throttles and took the transmissions out of gear and then looked to Hall expectantly.

“What does all that high-priced junk of yours say?” Hall asked Sam.

“That we’re about fifteen yards out from whatever it’s picking up.”

“Maybe a downed plane?” Remi suggested. “Or some refuse left over from World War Two?”

“Anything’s possible, but this looks fairly deep in the ice. Whatever’s down there didn’t get there recently.” Sam paused. “But it’s really odd. Unless I’m misreading this, it’s not submerged. It’s on the surface.”

“I don’t see anything,” Remi said.

“That’s because the ice increases in depth all along the coast. It’s probably twenty feet thick by the time there’s actual rock beneath it,” Sam said, studying the area in question through the pilothouse windows.

“Well, now what?” Hall asked.

Sam took a final look at the screens and rose. “I’d say it’s time to go for a walk.”

Hall, Sam, Remi, and three crewmen made their cautious way across the slippery, snow-dusted surface. Sam noted the gradual incline as they neared the mysterious target and calculated they’d climbed fifteen feet higher than the surface of the fjord by the time they were on top of whatever it was. The metal detector began screeching like a terrified gull when he swept it over the slight rise. He carefully moved along, dragging his foot, tracing a rough outline where the readings stopped. When he was done, the outline was roughly thirty yards long.

“Can you get some more men here?” Sam asked. “With tools to dig? Hopefully, you have some on board …”

“A few picks and shovels, and a crowbar or two,” Hall said, gazing at the outline.

After two hours of the team’s chipping away at the ice, one of the crewmen gave a cry. Sam and Remi hurried to his position.

Sam knelt down and examined the brown material, then stood and considered the outline again. “It’s wood.”

“I can see that. Question is why it registered on your scope.”

“Because there’s more than wood down there. Has to be iron, and a variety of other metals.”

Remi held his gaze. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

“I don’t want to get too excited or jump to any conclusions just yet.” Sam turned to the men, who had stopped gouging at the ice. “Be careful. Dig on the outside of the wood. You can see the line where it disappears into the ice. Stay on the far side of it.”

More seamen arrived at Willbanks’s urging, and soon they were hacking at the frost with whatever they could find — shovels, picks, pry bars, hammers. By the end of the afternoon, much of the buried structure was exposed, and there was no question about what it was.

“A Viking ship,” Remi said, her voice laced with awe.

Sam nodded. “Indeed. The first ever discovered on Baffin. There’ve been some finds in Greenland, but never here. This is exciting. It’s in perfect condition. The ice preserved everything.”

“What’s this? Can you make it out?” she called to him from the middle of the long craft.

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked as he joined her. Remi was squinting into the ice at the interior of the vessel.

“I see something.”

Sam cupped a hand over his eyes and peered into the gloom, then shook his head. “The light’s fading. I can’t tell.” He called over his shoulder, “Anyone got a flashlight?”

Two minutes later, Willbanks arrived with a long black-aluminum light and snapped it on before handing it to Sam.

“Thanks,” Sam said, and directed the beam into the ice, which was opaque in places. The light seemed to disappear as it penetrated the milky parts, and then it shined across the object of Remi’s attention. Remi jumped back. Sam continued gazing into the ice.

A man’s sightless blue eyes stared into eternity from within his frozen prison, a puzzled, peaceful expression on his face, as he clutched the remnants of a torn sail, his scraggly blond beard plainly visible even with a heavy animal-skin cloak draped over him in a futile, centuries-old bid to stave off the inevitable.