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 . . .”