The Viking Seal

CHAPTER 16 - History Continued

Kenny guided the helicopter into a gentle touch down on the tarmac outside the airport office in Blanc Sablon, across the Strait of Belle Isle from the Island of Newfoundland. Moira climbed down, leaving the transport of her gear to the two men, and strode off to the office to call the number Wayne had provided for local support.

"Has the queen said anything to you about our next move?" Kenny staggered along beside Parker, carrying most of the trappings from the helicopter.

"In your dreams. I spoke to Wayne and he said just do as we're told; he'll take care of Moira." They reached the office and lugged their belongings inside. Moira was leaning against a huge map of Newfoundland on the wall next to the telephone, speaking quietly in what sounded like French, while behind the counter the two employees sat nervously together, shooting fearful glances at her.

"Did you know she could speak that?" Kenny popped some money in a drink machine and pried a tin of juice out of the tray. Parker just shook his head, watching her.

"There will be someone along shortly to pick us up." Moira strode across the room and stood in front of them. "Our friends are in St. Anthony over on the island. They have a boat and a skipper, which means we will be needing the same transport." She focused her gaze on Kenny. "Can you operate a boat?"

"If it's got a motor and a steering wheel, I can run it." He answered, cockily.

"Good, then it will be up to you to find what we need when our ride gets here." She turned and looked around the office, ignoring the two people working behind the counter, and headed for the only seat. "Wake me when it arrives."

****

Captain Eddie sat at the head of the table regaling his guests with his boundless knowledge of the history of the area, specifically that of the Viking legends. He acknowledged that this was the reason the Congress employed him for this project and was using the opportunity to impress as best he could. The meal that Arvil had prepared surprised the group with its variety and quality both of product and taste.

He modestly accepted their praise and proceeded to top it with a rum cake that required seat belts.

"If this business lasts too long I'm going to need an exercise plan." Gretta set down her fork and patted her stomach.

"I'll drink to that . . . or maybe I'll skip the drink. I'm stuffed." Stone pushed his chair back and stretched his legs.

"When we're at sea we won't be dining like this," Captain Eddie warned, "so enjoy it while you can."

"How come?" Arnold asked.

"Because, Laddie, we will be operating on battery power and we can't afford to suck them dry running the galley for gourmet meals."

"So what will be having?" Melanie sounded concerned.

"The grub will be good," Arvil called from the galley. "Don't worry about it. Captain likes to make things sound ominous."

"Just do your chores, mate, and don't give bios on your skipper."

"Aye, aye, sir." They heard Arvil laughing to himself and they tentatively joined in.

For the next few hours, they pored over their maps and copies of the text from the journals, trying to pinpoint the best guess as to where to begin their detailed search. They knew it was likely further north on the coast of Labrador because of some of the newer translations from the journal. Captain Eddie chose the opportunity to launch into a history of sailing ships.

"Did you know," he began with a fond glance into some distant memory, "that the long ships developed by the Vikings and the Danes were highly efficient designs propelled by both oars and sails?" He waited a beat for a response then ploughed ahead. "They found the remains of one of the smaller classes in Norway in the latter part of the 19th century. It was called a snekkja. It was 78 feet in length with a 16-½ foot beam and just under 6 feet in depth. Had about 30 oars," he added with an authority that brooked no challenge.

"Some of the bigger ones had as many as 64 or more. Now the ones we expect they used to come to Iceland and here, were round ships called skuta. They used sail primarily but they could be rowed as well. Alfred the Great used these ships when he was fighting off—"

"Uhh, thanks for the nautical lesson, Captain, but I think we need to turn in if you plan on an early start. It's been a very long day for us."

"Oh. Well, okay." Captain Eddie displayed his disappointment but nodded to Gretta and called to Arvil to see the guests to their cabins.

****

The CONGA LINE left the dock at the first sign of light through a heavy fog. Breakfast was quick and sparse as promised and the group had little to do but watch vainly through the lounge portholes at the heavy sea and the grey curtain dangling over it. Captain Eddie came back from the bridge and poured himself a cup of coffee, the only predictable service available at all times.

"Typical start to the day," he announced, leaning on the serve through. "Like this most of the year. Ships don't get into the seaway with much regularity 'til June; too much of this," he indicated the fog, "and floating ice."

"You mean icebergs?"

"Not too many now, mostly sea ice. It's still dangerous enough to rip the hull out of a careless boat."

"Can you see it? I mean how do you know you won't run into something?" Melanie was peering out through the glass.

"Sonar." One word that seemed to not only answer the question but end the conversation about ice.

"We'll be headin' around Cape Bauld and then on the leeward side of Belle Isle and then movin' up close to the coast of Labrador. You folks had better start studyin' those maps and charts and keeping a weather eye for possible landmarks."

Arnold strained to see through the fog and groaned aloud. "How the hell are we supposed to see land, let alone landmarks!"

"When we get inside Belle Isle and closer to the coast it will be easier," Gretta said. "And the fog will start to burn off soon; we're expecting sunshine for a change, and that—down here—is a very good omen."

"How long is that going to take?

"Maybe three hours," Gretta guessed. "Depends on the sea."

"How big is this strait anyway?"

"It's about twelve miles wide." Arvil answered, coming into the lounge to refill his own coffee mug. "Maybe seventy-five miles long. If you look out the starboard side you'll see Belle Island is about halfway between the two coasts. It's only a little thing, about fifteen square miles. Shipping generally enters the strait south of the island. There's a lighthouse at the south end; you can probably pick it out if you concentrate."