end of its shattering journey. It came to a stop just thirty meters

short of a jumbled group of large rocks near the icebound shore.

for a brief few seconds there was a deathly silence. Then the ice made

a loud series of cracking sounds, metal groaned as it twisted against

metal, and the battered aircraft slowly settled through the ice into the

frigid water.

The archaeologists heard the Boeing fly up the valley too.

They rushed out of their hut in time to catch a brief look at the

plane's outline reflected in the ice glare by the landing lights. They

could clearly make out the illuminated cabin windows and the extended

landing gear. Almost immediately came the sound of shrieking metal, and

a scant instant later the vibration of the impact carried through the

frozen surface. The lights went dead, but the protest of tortured metal

continued for several seconds. Then, suddenly, a dead silence swept out

of the darkness, a silence that overpowered the dreary moan of the wind.

The archaeologists stood in disbelieving shock. Stunned, frozen

immobile, immune to the cold, they stared into the black night like

haunted statues.

"Good lord," Gronquist finally muttered in awe, "it crashed in the

fjord."

Lily could not conceal the shock in her voice. "Horrible! No one

could have survived uninjured."

"More than likely dead if they went in the water."

"Probably why there's no fire," added Graham.

"Did anyone see what kind of plane it was?" asked Hoskins.

Graham shook his head. "Happened too fast. Good size, though. Looked

to be multi-engine. Might be an ice recon patrol."

"How far do you make it?" asked Gronquist.

"Probably a kilometer, a kilometer and a quarter."

Lily's expression was pale and strained. "We've got to do something to

help them."

Gronquist took a visual bearing and rubbed his unprotected cheeks.

"Let's get back inside before we freeze, and form a plan before we

charge off half-cocked."

Lily began to come back on track. "Gather up blankets, any extra warm

clothing," she said brusquely. "I'll see to the medical supplies."

"Mike, get on the radio," Gronquist ordered. "Notify the weather

station at Daneborg. They'll spread the word to Air Force rescue units

at Thule."

Graham made an affirmative motion with his hand and was the first one

inside the hut.

"We'd better bring along tools for prying any survivors from the

wreckage," said Hoskins.

Gronquist nodded as he yanked on his parka and gloves. "Good thinking.

Figure out whatever else we'll require. I'll hook up the sled to one of

the snowmobiles. We can pile all the stuff in that."

Five minutes ago they had all been asleep. Now they were throwing on

cold-weather gear and hurriedly rushing about their respective chores.

Forgotten was the enigmatic Byzantine coin, forgotten was the warm

comfort of sleep; all that mattered was the urgency of getting to the

downed plane as quickly as possible.

Returning outside, head against a sudden shift of wind, Gronquist dashed