“We could move outside the cave,” Gro said, “and erect a tent for living.”
“Eric ordered us to stay inside the cave. I fear if he returns and finds us outside we will feel his wrath.”
“I looked at the marks,” Gro said. “He is due to return in three sleeps—no more.”
“We could take turns watching for his return,” Olaf said quietly, “then hurry back inside before he catches us.”
Gro stirred the berries in the boiling water. “Sudden death or slow sickness—I think it best we avoid what we know will happen for what might or might not.”
“A few more days,” Olaf said.
“A few more days,” Gro said as he placed an iron dipper into the pot. He filled a pair of iron bowls with the berry liquid and handed one to Olaf.
FOUR MARKS ON the entrance of the cave later, Eric the Red returned.
“You have the racking cough,” he said as soon as he saw the condition of the men. “I do not want you to infect the others. Return to the settlement but take up residence in the log house to the north.”
Olaf and Gro set off to the south the following morning—but they never reached home.
Olaf went first, his weakened heart simply giving out three days after the start of the journey. Gro didn’t fare much better, and when he could walk no more he made camp. The furry beasts came soon after. What wasn’t consumed immediately was spread about by the carnivores until it was as if Gro had never existed at all.
AFTER WATCHING HIS two men disappear into the distance, Eric gathered the miners, engineers and laborers he had brought from the settlement. He cleared a spot in the dust on the floor of the cave and began sketching his plans with a stick.
The plans were ambitious, but a gift from heaven should not be treated lightly.
That day the first parties began to map out the cave. In time it would be learned that the cave stretched nearly a mile into the mountain and the temperature increased as the cavern ran downward. A large pool with freshwater was located deep inside, with stalactites descending from the ceiling and stalagmites rising from the floor.
Groups were sent to the coast to locate long poles of driftwood to construct a series of ladders up and down the passages, while others carved steps into the rock. Intricate doors were fashioned from slabs of rock that pivoted on balanced hinges to hide the object from others who might seek her power. Runic carvings and statues were hewn from the rock, and light was reflected from the few openings where fresh air entered the cave. Eric supervised the work from the settlement on the coast. He visited the site rarely, letting the vision in his mind be his guide.
Men came, worked, became sick and died, only to be replaced by others.
By the time the cavern was finished, Eric the Red had decimated his population base and the settlement would never recover. Only once did his son, Leif, see the glorious monument.
Eric ordered the entrance sealed, and the object was left for those yet to come.
PART ONE
1
LIEUTENANT CHRIS HUNT rarely talked about his past, but the men he served with had gathered a few clues from his demeanor. The first was that Hunt had not grown up in some backwoods hillbilly haven and used the army to see the world. He was from Southern California. And, if pressed, Hunt would volunteer he was raised in the Los Angeles area, not wanting to disclose that he grew up in Beverly Hills. The second thing the men noticed was that Hunt was a natural leader—he was neither patronizing nor put on an air of superiority, but neither did he try to hide the fact that he was competent and smart.
The third thing the men found out today.
A chill wind was blowing down from the mountains into the Afghanistan valley where the platoon under Hunt’s command was breaking camp. Hunt and three other soldiers were wrestling with a tent they were folding for storage. While the men were bringing the ends together longways, Sergeant Tom Agnes decided to ask about the rumor he had heard. Hunt handed him the side of the tent so Agnes could fold it into halves.
“Sir,” Agnes said, “rumor has it you graduated from Yale University—that true?”
All the men were wearing tinted ski goggles but Agnes was close enough to see Hunt’s eyes. A flicker of surprise, followed by resignation, flashed quickly. Then Hunt smiled.
“Ah,” he said quietly, “you’ve found out my terrible secret.”
Agnes nodded and folded the tent in half. “Not exactly a hotbed for military recruiting.”
“George Bush went there,” Hunt said. “He was a navy pilot.”
“I thought he was in the National Guard,” Specialist Jesus Herrara, who was taking the tent from Agnes, said.
“George Bush Senior,” Hunt said. “Our president also graduated from Yale, and yes, he was a National Guard jet pilot.”
“Yale,” Agnes said. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up here?”
Hunt brushed some snow from his gloves. “I volunteered,” he said, “just like you.”
Agnes nodded.
“Now let’s finish breaking down this camp,” Hunt said, pointing to the mountain nearby, “and head up there and find that bastard who attacked the United States.”
“Yes, sir,” the men said in unison.
Ten minutes later, with fifty-pound packs on their backs, they started up the mountain.
IN A TOWN where beautiful women abound, at age forty-nine Michelle Hunt still caused men to turn their heads. Tall, with hazel hair and blue-green eyes, she was blessed with a figure that required neither constant dieting nor endless exercise to appear trim. Her lips were full and her teeth straight, but it was her doelike eyes and flawless skin that gave the strongest visual impression. And while she was a beautiful woman, that was as common in Southern California as sunshine and earthquakes.
What drew people closer to Michelle was something that cannot be created by a surgeon’s knife, honed through dress or manicure, or developed through ambition or change. Michelle had that thing that made both men and women like her and want to be around her—she was happy, content and positive. Michelle Hunt was herself. And people flocked to her like bees to a flower in bloom.
“Sam,” she said to the painter who had just finished the walls in her art gallery, “you do such nice work.”
Sam was thirty-eight years old and he blushed.
“Only my best for you, Ms. Hunt,” he said.
Sam had painted her gallery when it had opened five years before, her Beverly Hills house, her condo in Lake Tahoe and now this remodel. And every time she made him feel appreciated and talented.
“You want a bottle of water or a Coke or something?” she asked.
“I’m okay, thanks.”
Just then an assistant called from the front of the gallery that she had a telephone call, and she smiled, waved and began to walk away.
“That’s a lady,” Sam said under his breath, “a lady.”
Walking to the front of the gallery, where her desk faced out onto Rodeo Drive, Michelle noticed that one of the artists she represented was coming through the front door. Here her amiability had also paid off in spades—artists are a fickle and temperamental lot, but Michelle’s artists adored her and rarely changed galleries. That and the fact that she had started her business fully funded had contributed greatly to her years of success.
“I knew today was going to be good,” she said to the bearded man. “I just didn’t know it would be because my favorite artist would be paying me a visit.”
The man smiled.
“Just let me take this telephone call,” she said, “and we’ll talk.”
Her aide corralled the artist toward an area with couches and a wet bar off to one side. As Michelle slid into her desk chair and reached for the telephone, the aide took the artist’s drink order and a few seconds later began packing ground espresso into the machine to draw him a cappuccino.