Chase Baker and the Vikings' Secret (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 5)

by Benjamin Sobieck

  “Fifth time you told me that, dad. I think I got it,” Orange Face says and belly crawls between two boulders for no particular reason.

  “I’ll see you tonight when we pull you up. Make me proud, boy,” Long Beard says. “Over and out.”

  20.

  “Satellite?” I say. “What satellite?”

  Biyu rubs her eyes in a deliberate way, like it’s a sign for those watching from above. “A Chinese spy satellite. It’s been monitoring us the whole time,” she says.

  Spy satellites? This is a lot bigger than I expected.

  “Go on,” I say and offer her some snake meat.

  Biyu gnaws on a hunk before continuing. “I didn’t lie about this being a state-sponsored expedition. That part is true. The Chinese government sent me here for a specific purpose, but it didn’t want to draw too much attention. That’s why they sent me alone under the cover of being a cultural journalist,” she says.

  “But you’re not a journalist, are you?” I say.

  “I’m like the Chinese version of you, Chase. I recover antiquities of interest for the Chinese government, in and out of China. Like you, my family ran a successful excavation business. After some time in the military, I helped the government dig up cultural sites around China. That attracted the attention of some high-ranking members of the Communist party,” Biyu says and wipes her brow as the sun grows hotter.

  “So they send you around the globe, scooping up whatever relic catches the eye of some party official,” I say. “What gives you that right? Ever wonder if people don’t appreciate their history being stolen from them?”

  Biyu scoffs and says, “You’re forgetting your own history, Chase. For centuries, the European and Western countries did exactly that. Even your Indiana Jones, the character you Americans seem to enjoy so much, is guilty. The very ground your country is founded upon rests above the graves of cultures you robbed. But times are changing. Now is the century of the East, and we want to seize the future in the same way the West did: by controlling the past.”

  A part of me wants to shake the commie right out of comrade Biyu, but I restrain myself. Maybe I can score one for the good guys if I figure out her end game.

  “Control the past? How?” I say.

  “By re-writing the narrative. For you see, Mr. Baker, China’s footprint on this planet didn’t start only a few decades ago. Its past is far richer than you could possibly imagine, regardless of the West’s self-proclaimed status as keepers of history,” Biyu says and coughs. “China dominated this planet for much of the past, just as it will again in the future.”

  “And what sort of past are you trying to show the world this time?” I say. “I’ve put a few miles on myself, and I can tell you there isn’t much new under the sun. Not even here in The Pit.”

  Biyu chuckles. “Of course you wouldn’t think so. You’re the product of your government’s education system. You never heard the whole story,” she says.

  “About what?”

  “About how China explored the Americas long before anyone from Europe did,” Biyu says. “And you’re going to help me find the proof.”

  21.

  The significance of what Biyu tells me doesn’t sink in right away. When it does, I’m more alarmed than I thought initially.

  I always figured Columbus wasn’t the first person outside the Americas to make contact with the people of the western hemisphere. Like most people, I’d heard of the Vikings pushing west into Canada and the northern U.S., but not of anything earlier than that.

  If what Biyu says is true, it would score China a major propaganda win on the world stage and a psychological blow to Western influence. It’d speed up the slide of global power eastward in parts of the world up for grabs, economically speaking. I doubt the country I call home would engage in a full-scale war with China, but they’d certainly duke it out for trade deals in emerging markets. What better way to demonstrate China’s enduring muscle without firing a shot than to tune up the historical narrative?

  I admit it’s a brilliant strategy, but it’s also made in China. I wonder what’s so important in The Pit that it could re-write history. It’d have to be a phenomenal artifact, one capable of erasing centuries of Euro-centrism beyond the shadow of a doubt. Would something like that be in northern Minnesota, of all places? If Chinese explorers really did land in North America, wouldn’t the west coast be the best place to look for evidence?

  “You expect me to help you find this proof? I think you forget I served in Desert Storm. I can respect the fact you’re a patriot in your own right, but I’m not about to help the Chinese steamroll my country’s history,” I say.

  “I do, and you will,” Biyu says. “Your country’s history might benefit from a, as you say, steamroll. Broken treaties. Genocide. War. Disease. Your government committed all of these crimes against humanity on the native peoples of this continent. The Chinese were traders, not murderers. They lifted up the cultures they encountered. They didn’t wipe them out.”

  “You forget I’m the one with the knife,” I say. “And that you, too, are a product of your government’s education system. I’m sure the Chinese are the good guys in all your textbooks.”

  Biyu says, “Perhaps, but the evidence speaks for itself. I’ve collected artifacts from all corners of the Americas, which we in China called Fu Sang on our ancient maps. Artwork in South America showing Chinese cavalry. Chinese beads on Nez Perce garments in Idaho. Chinese coins in the Pacific Northwest. Centuries-old gemstones from the Far East in the Florida Keys. Cherokee fables of encounters with my ancestors. And don’t forget the courageous and well-documented journeys of Admiral Zhang He, who sailed with 28,000 brave explorers to the four corners of the world for the glory of the Ming Dynasty. The evidence is all there, but we need one final piece before revealing everything to the world.”

  “What’s that?” I say.

  “An admission from the Europeans themselves of China’s accomplishments. There’s an artifact here in The Pit that does just that. And you’re going to dig it up for me,” Biyu says. She grins. “I hired you for protection, yes, but I also know of your history as a sandhog, as you call yourself.”

  “What sort of artifact?” I say.

  Biyu shifts to support her bad leg. “Tell me, have you heard of the Kensington Runestone?” she says.

  Of course I have. It’s practically a requirement for people like me. The story goes that in 1898, a Swedish immigrant named Olof Ohman chopped down a tree on his farm in what is now called Alexandria, Minnesota, 130 miles northwest of Minneapolis. Within the roots of the tree he discovered a stone tablet engraved with strange symbols. Experts analyzed the symbols and determined them to be Norse runes, a form of writing used by the Vikings, dating back to the year 1362. The writing described a Viking camp as part of an expedition into Minnesota. This seemed to place Scandinavian explorers in North America at least 100 years before Columbus, although its authenticity is still hotly debated.

  “I’ve heard of the Kensington Runestone, but you’re a ways off if you think it’s buried somewhere in The Pit. Last I heard it’s in a museum in Alexandria. Anyone can stop in and see it. Maybe you should’ve checked the museum’s hours before launching an expedition,” I say.

  Biyu shakes her head. “I’m not an idiot, I know about the museum. There’s something you don’t know about the Kensington Runestone story,” she says.

  I think I already know the answer, but I play dumb anyway. “Oh, really?”

  “The farmer discovered two stones buried together, not one. Both were sent off for translation, where it was determined they were written by Vikings. One told the story of a Viking camp. That’s the one that was released to the public. But the second revealed something so shocking it was buried in a pit in guarded by a legendary monster,” Biyu says.

  “I take it we’re standing in that pit now,” I say. “What was so shocking about that second stone?”

  Biyu nods. “The farmer who discovered the sto
nes was Swedish, so he had no issues with the Viking story. But he, and the white keepers of history in this country, could not come to terms with the Vikings’ account of encountering Chinese explorers, as written on the second stone. Apparently, the Vikings told of trading posts established by the Chinese many years prior,” she says.

  “And I why am I only hearing of this now? Wouldn’t tribes across North America have stories to back this up?”

  “Those tribes knew of the Chinese, yes, but most used an oral tradition to pass the stories down. That knowledge went away with the white man’s guns,” Biyu says and points to Fiddler’s remains. “The Chinese government only learned of the second runestone recently from one of our informants.”

  Fiddler was a Chinese informant? What?

  Biyu hobbles to her feet using the gig as a crutch. She pokes with a stick to expose the underside of Fiddler’s left wrist. I didn’t notice it before, but there’s an 88 tattooed on it. Biyu shuffles to Fiddler’s other side and reveals the 14 inked beneath his right wrist.

  The numbers don’t mean much to me until Biyu explains them. The 14 stands for the words of a neo-Nazi manifesto about preserving the white race. The eights in 88represent the eighth letter of the alphabet: H. After learning about the 14 words, I’m not surprised to hear 88 equals HH, or “heil Hitler.”

  Biyu tells me Fiddler belongs to the National Socialist Movement, or NSM, the largest neo-Nazi organization in the U.S., based in St. Paul, Minnesota.

  Minnesota Nice isn’t so nice after all.

  “China keeps informants in resistance groups in other countries just like the U.S. does,” Biyu says.

  “Sure, but the NSM isn’t a group of disgruntled Americans. They’re Nazis. You really think that’s the kind of people your government wants to associate itself with?” I say.

  “They’re tame compared to the alliances your government makes. Does the name Osama bin Laden sound familiar?” Biyu says. “The NSM somehow learned of the existence of the second runestone and the secrets it holds. It planned to send Fiddler and three other members to The Pit to find and destroy it. It seems the stone’s presence is a threat to their perceived white heritage. But the Chinese government pays much better, so Fiddler decided to take me instead on the condition I hire someone for protection. He’s a race traitor in the NSM’s eyes, and its members are probably happy he’s dead.”

  Incredible. I had no idea.

  “There’s a place for you in all this, Chase,” Biyu says. “You can help me recover the second runestone. You’ll be rewarded far beyond any payday you’ve had before. My government will send aircraft to lift us out of here.”

  “Aircraft? And violate U.S. airspace? That’d be an act of war,” I say.

  “Like your government and its drones, my country acts in its interests regardless of borders and with the full knowledge no country would dare follow through on a military response,” Biyu says.

  “What if I don’t feel like helping?” I say.

  “If the runestone is not recovered, or if I die, the Chinese government will deny any knowledge of this expedition. They will leave our bodies to rot,” Biyu says and points to the sky. “They’re watching.”

  I don’t see any good options here, only bad ones and worse ones. She needs me more than I need her to get out of this mess, but a part of me wants to find that runestone, too. This is what I live for, and to literally walk away from such an artifact doesn’t sit well with my conscience. If I don’t find it, someone else will, like the NSM. I don’t know which is worse: letting them get to it or betraying my country by cooperating with Biyu.

  The tiebreaker goes to someone not even present in The Pit: my daughter, Ava. I don’t want the final memory of her father being the last conversation we had, the one where she made clear how small a role I’ve played in her life. I’m not perfect by any means, but I need to see her again.

  I squeeze the knife handle sticking out of the sheath at my hip and exhale loudly. After taking a long drink from the canteen, I look at Biyu and say, “If we’re going to pull a runestone out of the ground and rewrite history, we can’t do it with these Nazi freaks up our ass. I’ve got a plan.”

  Biyu smiles and says, “I’m listening.”

  22.

  We spend the rest of the day feeding the fire and shooting the shit. I tell Biyu about the crazy things I’ve seen in my travels. She relates how everyday life in China isn’t all that different from that in the U.S. It’s comforting and disturbing at the same time.

  On the one hand, she confirms what I’ve known all my life: people are pretty much the same no matter where you go. They want similar things, mostly a sense of belonging, but also a chance to live up to their potentials. It makes me wonder how many Einsteins died picking weeds instead of probing the mysteries of the universe.

  On the other hand, I’m disturbed by how many Einsteins aren’t picking weeds under the Chinese flag. That’s my bias coming through, but I’m not going to lie. I’m not thrilled about a future where China runs the world the way the U.S. does now.

  It weighs heavy on my mind as I ponder how to pull something off with this runestone. Maybe I can find a middle ground, one that doesn’t benefit Biyu or the NSM. I just don’t know how yet.

  We split the last sips in the canteen. I’ll need to harvest more dew tomorrow morning.

  If we make it to the morning.

  With the shadows growing longer, I slip away with the spotting scope. Staying well within the darkness cast by a monolith, I scan the rim of The Pit. A pair of glittering lights reflects the last sun of the day like two bug zappers. It’s a classic set up.

  Two up top for covering fire to keep us in place. One below to make the kill.

  It’s not like this is the first time I’ve been cornered and outnumbered. After we processed those deserters back at that bunker in Iraq, we found ourselves surrounded by the Republican Guard. It took 10 minutes for the Air Force to show up and wipe them out, but that was long enough for us to catch trouble. The gunfire forced us back into the bunker with the deserters. Thus began my 10 minutes in hell, returning fire from a window with corpses up to my chest. The stench alone stretched those 10 minutes into decades. I still wake up at night with a sweet rot in my nostrils.

  I don’t tell Biyu about my time in Iraq, or anyone else for that matter. Not even my ex-wife knows about it. I didn’t want anything to make its way to Ava. She’ll never be old enough to hear about the things I did in her name before she was even born.

  I bet Biyu is holding out in a similar way.

  “We’re out of snake,” I say and hold up an empty bandana after I return to camp with more scrap wood.

  “We’ll live,” Biyu says.

  “I like your attitude,” I say. Then, turning to Fiddler’s body, “No offense, buddy.”

  I toss more scrap wood on the fire until it gets nice and hot. Then I turn my back to Biyu and unzip my fly.

  “My apologies, but we need to let them know right where we are. This is the best way to make some smoke, seeing how dry it is down here,” I say.

  “Don’t get too close to the fire or you might need a new hobby,” Biyu says and laughs.

  The fire sheds my urine into wings of smoke, as if even the wood wants to fly away from the stink of boiling piss.

  “You sure about this plan of yours?” Biyu says.

  “Positive,” I say and zip up.

  23.

  “Light ‘em up,” Long Beard says to Silent Man an hour after sundown. Using infrared scopes, they focus the gunfire from their .30-06 rifles on the light and smoke from the campfire down in The Pit. The snap of lead hitting stone echoes throughout The Pit. Pausing to reload their magazines, Long Beard whispers into the radio, “We can see you, son, so don’t worry about getting hit. Go.”

  Down in The Pit, Orange Face pops a pill and lowers night vision goggles over his eyes. The snug fit presses into the juicy fruit of his injured eye. No bother. His mission is too important.

&
nbsp; He scurries out from inside a dugout at the base of a boulder, .45 in hand. His fingers check for the spare magazines in a pouch on his belt as he follows a line of rocks toward the camp. So long as he keeps quiet, the element of surprise should be in his favor.

  Low and slow Orange Face walks. They won’t be able to see his approach from the direction of the monoliths. The only catch is that he won’t see them until he’s practically on top of them.

  “You see ‘em yet?” Long Beard says into the radio in a hushed, urgent voice.

  Orange Face ignores the stupid question, flips off the radio and lets the ear bud fall to his lapel. His heart rate levels off as the speed dilutes into his system, and it soothes his nerves. It’s not the effect most people would expect. But then again, most people don’t feel level until that first cup of coffee in the morning. Same difference.

  The smell of the campfire lets Orange Face know he’s close. Something is off about its aroma, but he can’t quite identify what. After a few more steps, he sees the light from the fire bounce between the monoliths in an erratic dance.

  Orange Face holds his breath as he reaches the final few feet of his approach from behind the monoliths. He waits and listens for movement. Hearing none, he slips his good eye around the corner of the rock.

  It’s better than he expected. A man with his back to Orange Face sits cross-legged next to the fire, his body slumped forward. The covering fire from Long Beard and Silent Man already took care of him. Lucky shot.

  Off to one side is the body of a second man covered in branches, the one the Wendigo killed.

  That’s two down. What about the third, the woman? She’s missing. Orange Face didn’t count on that. If she left camp, Long Beard and Silent Man would’ve opened up with the rifles. They’ve gone silent since the initial volley.