by Matthew Rief
He landed hard in the center of the roaring vehicle, smashing into the guy in the back and barely grabbing hold of the seat latch. Jason shoved the man’s weapon skyward as he held the trigger, losing a spray of rounds into the sky. Grabbing the passenger grip with his left hand, Jason let go of the weapon, shifted his body, then pummeled his knee into the guy’s chest. A quick kick and a shove, and the guy lost control, flying off the snowmobile and crashing hard into the side of a boulder.
Keeping the gas locked at full speed, the driver shifted back and sliced a blade across Jason’s left side. The sharpened steel stung, and Jason winced as he engaged his final attacker. The man landed a hard elbow before Jason pounced on him from behind, grappling him into submission.
Stealing a glance at the terrain ahead of them, Jason realized the driver had put them on a direct course for the edge of the cliff. At their speed, they’d reach the fringe in a matter of seconds. Jason tried to turn the wheel, but the man was strong and kept it firmly in place, despite Jason’s arm squeezing tight around his neck.
With no choice but to abandon ship, Jason let go and leapt off the back of the vehicle. Crashing into the powder, he rolled and continued to slide toward the edge. He jammed the tip of the ice axe into the ground, the steel screeching along before catching and stopping him. Unable to hold on, Jason slipped off the grip and continued over the edge.
With both hands, he clutched the rope zipping free from his body and slowed himself as he fell over the ledge. His hands burned, but he squeezed tighter, bringing himself to a stop inches before running out of rope. His body arced and smacked against a wall of sheer rock, then he peeked down for the first time. A lush valley and a distant winding river loomed over three hundred feet below.
Fighting for every ounce of strength and resolve he had left, he began to climb hand over hand. He made it two hoists before a sound froze him mid-reach. The snowmobile rumbled back toward the edge, its driver somehow managing to redirect it away from the cliff and about-face back to his position.
Gripping the rope with his left hand, Jason reached back for his pistol. The engine stopped and footsteps appeared. The man leaned over, a knife in one hand, ready to slash the rope and send Jason to his death. The moment he peered over, Jason took aim and fired, blasting a round through the left side of his neck. The man gagged and lurched forward, pressing a hand to his injured throat. Peering with intense eyes, he snagged his knife from the snow and shoved the blade toward the rope to finish what he’d started.
Jason eyed his pistol, the slide having locked back, indicating that the round he’d fired had been the last one in the magazine. As the injured man leaned forward to sever the rope, a distant crack filled the air. A bullet tore through the man’s chest, followed by a second. He relinquished control of the blade, collapsed forward, and fell over the cliff, twisting as he sailed past Jason. His lifeless body smacked against the jagged cliff twice before cratering into the rocky ground below.
TWELVE
Jason stowed the pistol at the back of his waistband and held on to the rope with both hands. Hand over hand, he climbed ten feet before Alejandra appeared, poking her goggle-covered face over the edge.
“Next time, I’d recommend a longer rope,” she said.
Jason chuckled softly. “Not sure what I’d do without your expert climbing advice.”
Scott appeared behind her, and they grabbed hold of the nylon and heaved while Jason tilted his body and planted his boots into the rock face. A series of strong pulls and pushes, and he cleared the top. Rolling over, he lay on his back, taking a moment to catch his breath.
Scott was just about to address Jason when his phone rang. “Good to see you made off fine, Jase. Gotta take this.”
Jason nodded to their leader as he strode away, then he turned to Alejandra. “Talk about cutting it close,” he said, turning over and coming to a knee. “That guy was half a second away from cutting me loose.”
“The thanks I get for saving your life . . . again.”
Jason ran a hand through his hair while looking the Latina up and down. “You all right?”
“A little banged up. Though it appears I made off a lot better than you.”
She motioned toward the cut to Jason’s side and stepped over to examine it. Aside from a few scratches to the face, it was the only visible wound, but under his specialty clothing, he was bruised and battered, and as the adrenaline from the chase wore off, pain burned from all corners of his weary body.
With Scott still on the phone, he took a brief moment to ponder everything that had happened in the short time since he and Alejandra parachuted to the coast earlier that morning. He’d heard that the Nordic nation was an adventurer’s paradise, a place where Edmund Hillary meets Indiana Jones. He just hadn’t expected it to live up to its reputation so well.
It’d been three hours since he landed in the land of fire and ice. Since then, he’d motored up a shallow river to the base of a glacier, trekked over miles of ice, climbed straight up an eighty-foot waterfall, fought off a sudden attack in a cave, been flushed down a subglacial waterway, been chased by thugs on snowmobiles, and dangled over a towering cliff by the threads of a rope.
And somehow, he’d managed to push through it all with his life still intact.
Jason shook his head at the morning he’d had and rose to his feet.
Scott ended his call and approached. “They’re closing it off.”
Jason shrugged. “Closing what off? The airports?”
“The whole country. Given the potential severity of the situation, we’ve convinced the Icelandic government that it’s necessary. Nothing in or out. Not even fishing vessels or cargo planes.”
“So,” Alejandra said, “whoever these guys are, they’re not going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Which gives us a window to track them down.”
“What about roadblocks?” Jason said. “Those guys who attacked Alejandra aren’t exactly flooded with escape routes.”
“There are police blockades set up on the main road and a few of the better maintained side roads,” Scott said. “But they haven’t stopped anyone promising yet, so it looks like the guys with the samples managed to escape the scene. Not that it’ll do them any good if they can’t get out of the country. My guess is, this bio-terrorist operation has larger intended targets than the three hundred thousand residents here.”
Jason eyed the drop-off and pictured the dead guy lying motionless at the base of it. “Any word on who they are?”
“Nothing yet,” Scott said. “But we’ll have their bodies taken to the nearest morgue, and hopefully we can identify them. Right now, you two are the only ones who’ve interacted with them.”
“The ones I saw were speaking English and Korean,” Alejandra said. “It looked like the one in charge was this Korean guy.”
Jason described the guys he’d encountered in the cave and how they seemed to be a diverse group, with the leader also appearing East Asian—though it was hard to tell given the cold-weather gear and masks they’d all been wearing.
“Clearly a joint black op of some kind,” Scott said. “With experienced soldiers from around the world.”
Jason thought for a moment. “Any headway on the virus?”
“We’re meeting with Dr. Huxley, the man spearheading the task force orchestrated by the United Nations Security Council. He wants to update us on his findings before his meeting with the council members later this afternoon.” Scott glanced at his watch. “We’re catching up with him at a waterfront spot in Stokkseyri on our way to Reykjavík. Hopefully, he can shed some light on what kind of virus we’re dealing with, but regardless, it’s clear this isn’t something we want released on mankind.”
Fifteen minutes later, a pair of helicopters landed on the glacier beside them. One was used to transport the bodies of the terrorists so they could be identified, and Jason, A
lejandra, and Scott climbed aboard the other.
They strapped in, donned headsets, and shut the door while the Icelandic pilot fired up the rotors of the black Bell 407. Fresh snow blasted away from them, and they soon lifted off, ascending over the remote landscape and accelerating west.
Jason gazed out the window, awestruck by the never-ending valleys, mountains, and expanses of white. After Scott informed him that Ragnar had reached an emergency services center in Vik and was currently receiving care, Jason’s mind went to the newest, unofficial member of their operation. “What about Charlotte?” he said, inquiring about the renowned archeologist he’d met during their previous globetrotting adventure. “She learn anything about this virus and its past?”
Charlotte Murchison had been with Jason on Anegada when he received word of what was going on in Iceland. Like Jason, the daring intellectual wasn’t one to sit back and avoid dangerous situations. She’d insisted on joining the group in their flight north, and Jason figured her skills could come in handy.
“Haven’t heard from her yet,” Scott said through his headset. “She should still be in Reykjavík, digging around for anything useful.”
The archeologist was known for her ability to unearth and tell the stories of the past. And Jason was hopeful she could discover something that might be able to give them the origin of the mysterious Viking shipwreck that had been lost in the ice for nearly a thousand years.
THIRTEEN
Charlotte Murchison strode through the glass doors of the National Museum of Iceland in downtown Reykjavík. One of the nation’s most popular institutions, the impressive, three-story structure houses over two thousand artifacts that date back to the original settlers of the island.
Striding into the massive reception area, she approached the counter and introduced herself.
A young woman said, “Mr. Heimisson is in a meeting, Professor Murchison, but feel free to show yourself around until he’s done. Do you have any particular questions I can help you with?”
After Charlotte inquired about a specific date range, the woman directed her to the second floor, halfway back. Charlotte made for a set of wide marble stairs leading to a long, brightly lit space filled with glass cases and artifacts. A full-sized replica Viking longboat first caught her eye, followed by a towering rune stone that had been carved over a thousand years earlier.
Following the woman’s instruction, she arrived at an exhibit that focused on events from around the turn of the fourteenth century. She’d read a report that the archeologists who stumbled upon the Viking shipwreck had dated it to that period. Starting in the 1300s, Charlotte worked her way along, examining artifacts and reading old texts with accompanying translations and descriptions.
While scientists were working around the clock to investigate the virus by examining it under a microscope and running various intricate tests—and had been since the first victims caught it—Charlotte chose to utilize a different approach. An archeologist for the past fifteen years, she knew firsthand just how effective history could be at helping humans decipher the state of the modern world.
Whatever strand of deadly disease they were dealing with that had thawed and reintroduced itself to the human race, she was confident that the long-lost Vikings aboard the hidden shipwreck weren’t likely to be its only past victims. A virus like that would’ve spread rapidly and caused devastation wherever it went, and she knew that historical records regarding its effect on the population at the time would likely exist.
After wrapping up the section and coming up empty, she went through again, just in case she missed something. She wanted to look over the displayed info with her own fresh eyes before asking the curator for his take. The only piece that caught her eye was a raiding expedition in AD 1340, to what is now the eastern part of the United Kingdom. Viking raids along the Scottish, Irish, and English coasts were common at the time, the pirates from the north often targeting monasteries for their precious gold and silver items. Vikings had even established long-term settlements in much of England, including the entire Isle of Man. But this particular raiding story caught her attention.
She read about members of the Viking seafarers dying of an unknown sickness during the voyage back to Iceland. The story on the display ended there, saying no more about what had happened when the group returned to their homeland.
Strange, she thought, reading over the surrounding texts to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
A heavyset curator casually approached Charlotte. “Miss Murchison.” He adjusted his glasses, then brushed aside his gray hair. “It’s an honor to have you in our museum. My name is Kristjan. I read about your recent work recovering Captain Kidd’s treasure in the Caribbean. Fascinating. Aren’t the excavations still ongoing?”
“Yes, but I’ve gotten a little sidetracked.”
Kristjan chuckled. “That sums up my entire career, attempting to unearth and understand the past.” He glanced at the display in front of her. “How may I be of service?”
Charlotte stepped aside and pointed at the text before her. “I get the feeling that there’s more to the story here.”
The curator didn’t need to read the words to know what she was referring to. He knew every inch of the museum. “If my recollection serves correct, most of the raiders’ settlement disappeared from historical text following that raid. One of multiple diseases to plague our nation throughout its history.”
Charlotte pinched her bottom lip. “Do you have any primary texts I could look at?”
Kristjan smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.” After telling another museum worker that he’d be down in the archives, he led Charlotte across the room full of artifacts and into an elevator. Swiping his badge, he pressed negative one on the elevator, and they dropped to the basement. When the doors opened, they were greeted by a woman in her seventies, typing away on her computer, and a long room filled with seemingly endless shelves and drawers of texts.
The woman gave them a nod as they passed, then continued with her work.
“One of our many translators,” Kristjan said as he led her down three rows and up the middle.
“I’m amazed so much knowledge was written down and survived, given the tumultuous history of the island.”
“Vikings weren’t all bloodthirsty brutes as they’re usually portrayed. Many of them were scholars and intellectuals. Engineers, cartographers, ecologists, you name it. And they were some of the finest mariners to ever set foot on a boat.” He scanned a finger over a label plate, then slid out a drawer and leafed through pages. “Ah, here we are. The southern shore, and the final days of Naturstrond.”
“Naturstrond?”
“It was a small settlement. Translated to English, it means ‘Night Coast,’ referencing the black-sand beaches of the area.” Kristjan looked over the text. “It’s the settlement where Vikings who’d gotten sick on their way back from the raid resided. Back then, tribes would often band together to sail over five hundred miles to the United Kingdom and execute attacks. Then they’d split up the bounty. By all sources, the ones who landed at a coastal village in Mercia to conduct a raid were all part of the group from Naturstrond. It was on their vessels that the sicknesses broke out during the voyage home.”
“What happened to the settlement? You mentioned that it vanished from history.”
The curator handed her the text, then led her down the aisle to a series of tables and chairs. Clicking on a lamp, he laid out the text and grabbed a magnifying glass. “Have a look for yourself, Miss Murchison.”
She leaned over and focused on the magnified text. “I can’t read Icelandic.”
“My apologies,” Kristjan said, then he began to read. “Upon the return of the raiding party, it was discovered that most of the warriors from Naturstrond had perished during the voyage. Cursed by a mysterious strike from the gods, their bodies were overtaken by blisters. They were consu
med by great pains and could hardly move. The few who managed to survive the trip soon perished, as well.”
Charlotte’s heart rate jacked up a peg. They were the same symptoms shown by the archeological team who’d discovered the ship.
“In less than six days, half of the entire settlement of Naturstrond was dead. And in twenty days, the place was haunted only by ghosts. Abandoned and locked off for fear of provoking the wrath of Odin, no man ever dared tread near the cursed settlement again. And the name of Naturstrond became synonymous with incurable plague.”
“A virus that wiped out an entire village?” Charlotte was perplexed by the effectiveness of the mysterious infectious agent. “How many lived in Naturstrond at the time?”
“Tough to figure,” Kristjan said, scratching his gray-coated chin. “They didn’t exactly keep a strict census like today. But based on my prior knowledge of the place, I’d estimate one to three thousand. Somewhere in that range.”
“Over a thousand people. All dead. I’ve never heard of a virus being so effective.”
“It’s possible that some managed to slip away and survive in other settlements. But yes, that is an unfortunate anomaly. Generally, the worst outbreaks throughout Iceland’s history have claimed half a town’s population, at most.”
Charlotte plopped into a chair, running the information around in her head. A virus that acted quickly and had a one-hundred-percent fatality rate, or at least close to it.
“Is there any more documentation regarding Naturstrond?”
Kristjan shook his head. “From the return of the raiders onward, this is it. The town was lost within weeks.”
“You said that the Vikings from Naturstrond made up a raiding party that sacked a coastal village in Mercia?”
