The Eye of Heaven Read online

  ALSO BY CLIVE CUSSLER

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cussler, Clive.

  The eye of heaven / Clive Cussler and Russell Blake.

  p. cm.— (A Fargo Adventure ; 6)

  ISBN 978-0-698-14074-5

  1. Archaeologists—Fiction. 2. Treasure troves—Fiction. 3. Arctic regions—Discovery and exploration—Fiction. 4. Suspense fiction. 5. Adventure fiction. I. Blake, Russell. II. Title.

  PS3553.U75E94 2014 2014012146

  813'.54—dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coinicidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Clive Cussler

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  PROLOGUE

  SOMEWHERE IN THE LABRADOR SEA, A.D. 1085

  Flashes of lightning seared the turbid night sky, illuminating the drawn faces of the men heaving on the long wooden oars of the Viking longship as it fought against the ravages of the unforgiving sea. The captain swayed in time with the relentless swell as he watched the wall of towering waves pounding the stern.

  Sheer cliffs of black water driven by the icy wind threatened to capsize the hardy craft with each passing minute. Sheets of rain lashed the grim crewmen as they strained at their task, their survival depending on their unflagging effort. The captain eyed them with determination, his brow furrowed as the deluge tore at his skin, water running along the faint white battle scar stretching from the corner of his left eye to his blond beard. He’d grown up on the ocean, one of a hardened race of adventurers and plunderers, and nature’s untamed violence was nothing new. Countless nights he’d hurled oaths on the treacherous North Sea, but, even for him, this was a once-in-a-lifetime storm.

  The wooden vessel was now badly off course, driven north as it ran with the seas. Had it pressed on its intended route, one of the mammoth waves would have assuredly broken over the bow and capsized the ship, bringing certain death. The best the captain could do was to steer the boat with the wind at his stern and ride out the fury of the gale.

  A flare of brilliance streaked through the roiling clouds, glowing momentarily before fading back into the gloom. Salt water dripped from his bearskin cloak as the muscles on his powerful arms bulged from the effort. Another bright flash lit the night. The glowering profile of a carved wooden dragon reflected the light just aft of the captain’s head, soaked with the spray blowing off the angry sea.

  From among the exhausted oarsmen, a tall man with skin the texture of leather and an untamed red mane lurched his way forward, his footing sure on the coarse oak planks beneath him even in these miserable conditions.

  “Thor is venting his fury tonight, eh, Vidar?” the captain shouted to his mate over the howli
ng wind.

  “He is indeed, sir. But I think the worst is past. The swells seem smaller than a few hours ago.”

  “I hope you’re right. My arms ache like I’ve been wrestling a bear all night.”

  “I know the feeling. You’ve seen my wife.”

  The two veteran seamen exchanged humorless smiles, and then the mate edged next to the captain and took the rudder staff from his grip.

  “So much for trying to sleep in this nightmare. How are the men holding up?” the captain asked.

  “As well as can be expected. Cold. Tired.” Vidar didn’t say “afraid.” It wasn’t in these warriors to admit fear.

  “They’ve spent enough time quaffing ale and enjoying the native hospitality. This will give them something to think about in case they’ve softened like a maiden’s robe.”

  “Aye, Captain. It’s definitely putting them to the test—”

  A deafening explosion shook the deck beneath them. Both men gazed at the dazzling pyrotechnics with eyes seasoned from a lifetime on the ocean and in battle.

  The captain glimpsed a shape rising behind him and turned instinctively. They stared as the stern split a massive wave, the rush of the breaking sea the only sound. After a brief moment suspended at the crest, they gradually eased down the back side, the black monster disappearing into the darkness.

  “Could you imagine if we’d hit that one square on?” Vidar asked in a hushed voice.

  “Or amidships. We’d all be on the way to Valhalla by now.”

  Their eyes drifted to the mast, now shattered and useless, the top half torn away like a twig, along with a major portion of the sail—victim of the stealth with which the storm had hit. That had been a costly miscalculation. He should have lowered the woven wool sheet before the wind could rip it loose. But he’d been trying for every bit of speed possible. His men’s arms were strong, but after almost twenty-four hours of rowing, even in shifts, they were reaching their limit.

  Among the most impressive longships ever launched, Sigrun was built to exacting standards for a crew of ninety, with rowing positions for up to eighty men, two to each of the ship’s forty oars, and a detachable mast fifty feet in height. She boasted a length of a hundred twelve feet and a beam of sixteen, a keel hewn from one massive oak, and square stones for ballast. Sigrun could travel at a speed approaching fourteen knots under sail in calm conditions, but during a winter storm of this proportion, in the farthest reaches of the North Atlantic, speed wasn’t an issue—staying afloat was.

  The Sigrun had a typical Viking lapstrake, double-ender hull, but with a taller gunwale for open-sea expeditions, and its stern and bow were sculpted with identical dragon heads. Ships like Sigrun had a solid track record, navigating some of the most dangerous ocean on the planet, and their seaworthiness and speed were legendary. But even the most durable craft had its limits, and the storm had pushed Sigrun and her crew far beyond anything they’d been through in all their years together.

  Long hours passed, and as dawn’s first glimmer fought through the heavy gray clouds the seas began to flatten. The captain called out the order for the exhausted oarsmen to rest now that the most dangerous part had passed—and then his eyes spotted a new menace: ice. Fifty yards ahead, an iceberg loomed in the haze, easily the size of a small hill. He twisted to the crewman manning the rudder and yelled a warning.

  “Ice! Ahead!”

  The ship had a shallow draft, but, even so, the churning waves could push them too near the submerged mass, which would shatter the wooden hull and sink the longship, the icy water killing all hands within minutes. The bow swung slowly, the steering sluggish as it resisted the surge of the following seas. Another rolling swell pushed them nearer—too close for the captain’s liking.

  “Put your backs into it. Pull, damn you, pull or we’re done for.”

  The ship glided past the brooding ice as silently as a wraith. The captain’s eyes roved over the frozen monolith, an island of desolation in the middle of the ocean. He offered yet another silent prayer to the gods. If the ship was in the ice, the storm must have blown them farther north than he’d feared, and the overcast would make it impossible to plot a course using the primitive means at his disposal.

  “Bring one of the ravens from the hold,” he ordered.

  Vidar relayed the command to the nearest crewman, who scuttled away. The storm surge was nearly spent, and it was time to use one of the Viking seafarers’ secret weapons: birds.

  Two men heaved a deck hatch open and descended into the forward cargo hold. Moments later, they emerged carrying a rough wooden cage with a large, agitated black form in it. The taller of the two men carried the cage to the captain’s station at the stern and set it down on the deck. With a final glare at the sea, the captain squatted on his haunches and eyed the raven.

  “Well, my friend, it’s time. May you fly straight and true. Don’t let me down. Our survival depends on your instincts. Let Odin guide you.”

  He straightened and gave the crewman a curt nod. “Release it, and wish it Godspeed.”

  The crewman lifted the cage to chest height as Vidar approached and, after fiddling with the leather binding that held the access door closed, pulled the door open and reached in. The raven flinched, but the fight was out of it, and Vidar easily cornered it with cold hands. He withdrew the bird, and then, with a prayer of his own, tossed it into the air.

  The raven circled the ship, finding its wings, and then flew to port.

  “Be quick about it. Bring the bow around. Follow the raven.”

  Their gazes trailed the black speck as it disappeared into the distance, and they quickly aligned the prow’s fearsome dragon head to the bird’s flight.

  “How many more do we have, Vidar?” the captain asked.

  “Only one. We lost the other two from shock.”

  “I know how they must have felt. That storm was one we’ll be talking about around the fire when we’re old and gray.”

  “That’s the truth. But we made it. And now we know where landfall lies.”

  “The only question is how far away.”

  “Yes. And how hospitable.”

  “Probably not warm beaches and willing maidens, I’d wager, judging by the ice and the dropping temperature.”

  “I suspect you’re right.”

  The men fell silent, lost in their thoughts, their course uncertain for now. Once they found land and the clouds had parted, they could use the sun to plot the way home.

  “Order the rest of the men to the oars, Vidar. We need to make speedy time while it’s light. I don’t want to spend another night on the open sea with icebergs waiting to sink us.”

  Vidar turned to the resting men, who were slumbering wherever they could find space on the deck. “Time to earn your keep. To the oars, Vikings, to the oars!”

  By late afternoon, they could make out snow-covered mountains in the distance, perhaps a half a day ahead at their present speed. The welcome sight galvanized the exhausted men, who redoubled their efforts now that a destination was within reach. Vidar manned the rudder, and the captain looked landward from the helm, keeping a sharp eye on the water. As the ship drew nearer to land, the sea was filled with smaller chunks of floating ice, as well as the occasional massive iceberg.

  “What do you think?” the captain asked, his face pallid from two days of relentless stress.

  “It’s land, sure enough. I say we find safe harbor and put up for the night and then devise a plan once we’re rested.”

  “The men are surely at the end of their rope. We can improvise some repair for the mast. It will be a long trip home if we have to row all the way.”

  Vidar nodded. “That it will be.”

  “Look—a fjord. If we follow it inland, we should be able to find a suitable spot to make camp,” the captain said, pointing a gnarled finger at the gap along the coastline. “With any luck, there may even be an open river.”

  “Could be,” Vidar agreed, squinting to better make it out.
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  “If there is, that would mean fresh water. And possibly animals.”

  “Both welcome guests to our diminishing stores.”

  “We should follow the fjord and see how far it goes,” the captain said. “I don’t see any better options, and it will be dark again soon.”

  “Anything that gets us out of this wind. At least the cliffs will provide us shelter from the worst of it.”

  “Make for the fjord.”

  Vidar fixed the oarsmen with a determined glare. “Come on, lads. Pull. We’re almost there.”

  The only sound was the oars creaking as the men strained at their task. There was no other sign of life, no evidence that they weren’t the only living things on Earth. There was nothing to indicate that they hadn’t been blown to a freezing purgatory in some remote netherworld.

  “Steady, men. Steady . . .” Vidar called out as they weaved around the ice floes toward the blue-white cliffs on either side of the fjord. He leaned toward the captain. “Can you make that out in the distance? It looks like a narrow channel.”

  “Yes, I see it. It’s likely there’s another bay beyond it. Whatever the case, we need to keep moving forward until we find a place to put in for the night. It’s likely there’s no place to land along this unforgiving coast.”

  The ship eased through the gap in the shore and found itself in an increasingly dense ice floe. The craggy canyon walls jutted high into the heavens and blocked out the dimming rays of the setting sun. As they continued forward, the area grew darker, but thankfully the worst of the weather had been left at the channel’s mouth and the water was still.