"Hold on."
Pitt carefully wiped off the growth over a flat section of the sternpost just before it disappeared upward into the ice, waiting patiently for the resulting algae cloud to drift away.
"There's some kind of a hardwood plaque imbedded into the sternpost. I can make out lettering and a face."
"A face?"
"With a curly head of hair and heavy beard."
"What does it read?"
"Sorry, I can't translate Greek."
"Not Latin?" Giordino asked skeptically.
The raised carving was indistinct in the shimmering light that filtered through the ice. Pitt moved in until his face mask nearly touched the wooden plaque.
"Greek," Pitt stated firmly.
"Certain?"
"I used to go with a girl who was an Alpha Delta Pi."
"Hold on. You've thrown the bone pickers into spasms."
After nearly two minutes, Giordino's voice returned over the earphones.
"Gronquist thinks you're hallucinating, but Mike Graham says he studied classical Greek in college and asks if you can describe the lettering."
"First letter resembles an S shaped like a lightning strike. Then an A with the right leg missing. Next a P followed by another handicapped A and what looks like an inverted L or a gallows. Then an 1. Last letter is another lightning strike S.
That's the best I can do."
Listening over the speaker inside the shelter, Graham copied Pitts meager description on the page of a notebook.
He scrutinized what appeared to be a word for several moments.
Something was out of place. He struggled to jog his memory, and then he had it. The letters were Classical but Eastern Greek.
His thoughtful expression slowly turned incredulous. He furiously wrote a short word, tore out the page and held it up-in modern capitals it read, S A R A PI S
Lily stared at Graham questioningly- "Does it mean anything?"
Gronquist said, "I think it's the name of a Greek-Egyptian god. "
"A popular deity throughout the Mediterranean," agreed Hoskins. "Modern spelling is usually 'Serapis. "'
"So our ship is the Serapes," murmured Lily pensively, Knight grunted.
"So we might have either a Roman, Grecian or Egyptian shipwreck. Which is it?"
"We're over our heads," answered Gronquist. "We'll need the expertise of a marine archaeologist who knows ancient Mediterranean shipping to sort this one out."
Below the ice, Pitt moved across the starboard side of the hull, stopping where the planking vanished into the ice. He swam around the sternpost to the port. The planking looked warped and bowed outward. A few kicks of his fins, and he could see a section that was stove in by the ice.
He eased up to the opening and slipped his head inside. it was like looking in a dark closet. He saw only vague, indiscernible shapes. He reached in and felt something round and hard. He gauged the distance between the broken panels, The gap was too small to squeeze his shoulders through.
He grasped the upper plank, planted a finned foot against the hull and pulled. The well-preserved wood slowly bent but refused to give. Pitt tried both feet and heaved with everything he had. The plank still held firm. When he was just about to call it quits the treenails suddenly tore off the inside ribs and the waterlogged wood peeled away, throwing Pitt backward in awkward slow motion against a large rock.
any respectable card-carrying marine archaeologist would have gone into cardiac arrest at such irreverent brutality toward an ancient artifact, Pitt felt totally unsympathetic toward academic scruples. He was cold and getting colder, his shoulder began to ache from the impact on the rock, and he knew he couldn't stay down much longer.
"I've found a break in the hull," he said, panting like a marathon runner. "Send down a camera."
"Understood," replied the stolid voice of Giordino. "Come back and I'll pass it to you."
Pitt returned to the dive hole and followed his bubbles to the surface.
Giordino lay on his stomach on the ice, reached down and handed Pitt a compact underwater video camera/recorder.
"Take a few meters of tape and get out," said Giordino. "You've accomplished enough."
"What about Commander Knight?"
"Hold tight, I'll put him on."
Knight's voice came over the earphones. "Dirk?"
"Go ahead, Byron."
"Are you one hundred percent certain we've got a thousand-year-old relic in pristine condition?"
"All indications look solid."
"I'll need something tangible if I'm to convince Atlantic Command to keep us on station another forty-eight hours."
"Stand by and I'll seal it with a kiss."
"An identifiable antiquity will suffice," Knight said dourly.
Pitt threw a wave and faded from view.
He did not enter the wreck immediately. How long he floated motionless outside the jagged opening he couldn't be sure. Probably about one minute, certainly no longer then two. Why he hesitated, he didn't know.
Maybe he was waiting for an invitation from a skeletal hand beckoning from within, maybe he was afraid of finding nothing more than debris from an eighty-year-old Icelandic fishing schooner, or maybe he was just leery of entering what might be a tomb.
Finally he lowered his head, tightened his shoulders and cautiously kicked his fins.
The black unknown opened up and he swam in.
Once Pitt squeezed inside, he paused and hung motionless, slowly settling on his knees, listening to his pounding heart and his breath escaping from the exhaust valve, waiting until his eyes eventually became accustomed to the fluid gloom.
He didn't know what he'd expected to find: what he found was an array of terra-cotta jars, pitchers, cups and plates neatly stacked in shelves set in the bulkheads. One was a large copper pot he had touched when groping through the hull; its walls had turned a deep patina green.
At first he thought his knees were resting on the hard surface of the deck. He felt about with his hands and discovered he was kneeling on the tiled surface of a hearth. He glanced up and saw his bubbles rise up and spread in a wavering cover. He stood and surfaced into clear air, his head and shoulders having risen above the water level of the fjord,
"I'm inside the ship's galley," he notified the spellbound party on the ice. "The upper half is dry. Camera is rolling."
"Acknowledged," Giordino said briefly. Pitt used the next few minutes to video-record the galley's interior above and below the water level, while keeping a running dialogue on the inventory. He found an open cupboard stocked with several elegant glass vessels, He lifted one and peered inside. It held coins. He picked one out, rubbed away the algae with his gloved fingers, and shot tape with one hand. The coin's surface revealed a golden color.
A sense of awe and apprehension flooded over Pitt. He looked quickly around as if expecting a ghostly crew, or at least their skeletal apparitions, to come bursting through the hatchway to accuse him of theft. Only there was no crew. He was alone and touching objects that belonged to men who had walked the same deck, prepared food and eaten here-men who had been dead for sixteen centuries.
He began to wonder what had happened to them. How had they come to be in the frozen north when there were no records of such a historic voyage? They must have died of exposure, but where did their bodies lie?
"You'd better come up," said Giordino. "You've been down almost thirty minutes."
"Not yet," replied Pitt. Thirty minutes, he thought. It seemed more like five. Time was slipping away from him. The cold was beginning to affect his brain. He dropped the coin back in the glass vessel and continued his inspection.
The galley's ceiling rose half a meter above the main deck overhead, and small arched windows that normally allowed ventilation were battened down on the upper side of the forward bulkhead. Pitt pried one partially open only to confront a solid wall of ice.