"Fat, of course," the Reich Minister said, winking and patting his own stomach in self-deprecation. The others laughed again. "For margarine. And oil. Not for lighting anymore, no, we're no longer harpooning to read by. For munitions, Hart. Whale fat is a valuable ingredient of glycerin. And sperm oil is preferred for precision machinery such as fighter plane engines. The whale is vital for waging modern war."
"So this expedition
isn't
just for scientific purposes?" Hart asked.
"Science and national destiny are inextricably linked in the modern world," answered Heiden, making a rare contribution to the conversation.
"Well said, Captain!" exclaimed Göring. "Knowledge is power!"
"Knowledge is also
progress,
" added Greta. "After all, what ultimately sets us apart from the whales is what we
know."
"But this
is
a peaceful expedition?" persisted Hart, despite a frown of disapproval from Kohl.
Göring grew serious. "Life is competition, Hart," he said. "I don't draw the distinction between peace and war that the naive do."
"I think Owen's real question is whether the
Schwabenland
is a warship," said Kohl, trying to steer the conversation to safer ground.
"No, of course not! Do you think we'd enlist an American in our navy? Your mere presence underlines Germany's peaceful intentions. No, no, no. We sail for knowledge, but knowledge with purpose: to explore Antarctica and to establish our rights."
"We stake our claim in peace," Heiden said.
"Exactly," the Reich Minister said. "And if the Norwegians get in our way, our spirits are prepared for war!"
The
Schwabenland
looked like an unpacked steamer trunk, its holds popped open and Antarctic supplies strewn on the Hamburg docks. Crates, canvas bags, tanks, tubes, and coils of rope and wire were heaped as if in anticipation of Christmas. Wooden skis were bundled like firewood, tents came wrapped in their own ropes and pegs, and cargo sleds machined in Bavaria were precisely lined on the creosote dock timbers as if on military parade. Pallets of canned food shone dully under the gray German sky, freshly filled and without rust. There were ice axes, crampons, fur parkas, boots, nets, carboys, buoys, snow shovels, backpacks, camp stoves, a case of Scotch whiskey, and a box of Spanish oranges.
Be prepared,
Hart quoted to himself.
Perched on the vessel's stern were two twin-engined Dornier Wal seaplanes, mounted to catapults that stretched for one hundred and forty feet along its deck. "So these are the birds," the pilot whispered to himself. The flying boats were big: sixty feet long with a ninety-foot wingspan. Struts held the wing and engine housing above a narrow, boatlike fuselage that nested on enormous floats. On the tail was a swastika. The Wals looked a bit ungainly but Hart knew they were famous for dependability and endurance.
The
Schwabenland
itself was a seaplane tender of workmanlike appearance, the point of its bow descending vertically into the water and its rounded stern overhanging a huge rudder. Two cargo masts were busily employed swinging cargo aboard. There was a low bridge superstructure, a mid-deck with a single towering smokestack and lifeboats, and then a long stern deck dominated by the catapults. The ship looked twice the length of the tender Farnsworth had taken to the Antarctic. The Germans seemed to be sparing no expense.
Hart was met on the pier by a short and wiry master's mate, with curly hair and wry manner. "You the Yankee?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. "Yes, of course, I could see it a quarter mile away, the walk, the manner. Americans! God knows what possessed you to show up here."
"I was hired," Hart said.
"The universal excuse. Well, my name is Fritz. Eckermann's the surname, but it's just Fritz to you, right? Because you're going to be Owen to me, I'm afraid, no
Herr
this and
Herr
that. Ach, don't bother shaking hands with yours so full, you can kiss me later, here, I'll take that seabag... God in heaven, are you hoarding lead? No, I'm just kidding, I've got it, but Christ, you've packed enough for The Afterlife... Ah, it's books I suspect, you're a secret intellectual! Some are dirty, I hope? No? Well, it's a long voyage, pilot, you can borrow mine... This way! Will you look at this mess? Damnation, who ordered all this stuff? Not the people who have to put it away, you can bet on that!... Albert, move that massive ass of yours, we're coming aboard... !" And Hart was led up the gangway and through a hatchway to the initially bewildering warren of companion- and passageways typical of any ship.
The manifest assigned him a tiny stateroom to himself. "I'm impressed," said Fritz, giving an exaggerated groan as he dumped Hart's seabag on the floor. "Your own bunk and porthole. One more pooh-bah, right? Well, no bowing and scraping from Fritz Eckermann, I'm afraid. When the revolution comes, we'll all be equal." He winked. "Come on then, you can sort your socks later. Captain Heiden wants to meet with you." He turned and led the way toward the bridge.
The expedition leader sat in a high leather swivel chair from which he could survey the city's harbor, meeting a steady stream of officers and sailors who had questions about the voyage. Heiden usually answered with a curt sentence or two but with Owen he took a bit longer.
"Welcome aboard the
Schwabenland,
Hart. Not quite as luxurious as Karinhall but I think you'll find her a good ship. A range of twenty-four thousand miles and a host of recent improvements. Fritz here will show you about but I must warn you: don't take his prattling too seriously."
Hart smiled. "It's bigger than I expected."
"It's no battleship but we've made some modifications. There's a meter-wide belt of reinforcing steel around the hull to fend off ice. The bronze prop has been replaced by a stronger steel one. We've added nine cabins— you have one of the new ones— and to make sure we don't suffer the fate of the
Titanic
we've added thousands of welded steel casks in the lowest hold for emergency flotation in case we're breached. We're trying to think of everything but I'm sure your experience will be most useful, so don't hesitate to suggest improvements. If there is a question or decision, I'm the ultimate authority. Understand?"
Hart nodded. "Then Jürgen's role is advisory?" he asked, taking the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity about the political liaison.
The captain frowned. "Drexler represents the Reich Minister," he said obliquely. "The state. He is in the
Allgemeine
division but this ship is mine. Now. You must meet our pilots; Fritz will introduce you. Please inspect the airplanes and equipment. And you'll dine in the officer's mess, as will the people you met at Karinhall. There will be a rotating watch once we're at sea. If there is a problem, see me. This is satisfactory, yes?"
And with that Fritz ushered him away. "This is satisfactory?" the seaman mimicked as they descended from the bridge. "As if we have an alternative. You have no ticket back to America yet, yes? And no pay yet, am I right? That's what I thought. Ha! Welcome to Germany, Mr. Pilot, you may have signed on for more than you wished. Of course I never said that. Heil Hitler, blah blah blah."
"Where's your Germanic respect for authority, Fritz?" Hart asked.
"I lost it when I watched workingmen tremble before bosses who couldn't find the crack of their ass with both hands," he said. "Nazi big shots! I've seen more pompous fools and self-important blunderers the last few years than a toilet swabber in a Berlin ministry. Though to tell you the truth, pilot, this Heiden seems all right. Just don't
you
strike any airs with me."
In actuality, things
were
satisfactory. Hart found himself useful soon after his arrival in Hamburg. The voyage gave him purpose; he'd gone from self-imposed exile to foreign expert. He specified the airplane fuel-oil ratio Lufthansa was supplying for Antarctic cold and began prowling the cargo and comparing it to his experience on Snow Hill Island. He suggested substitution of wooden for metal runners on the sleds to make them less brittle, and seemingly primitive leather lashings in exchange for machined screws for the same purpose. Dehydration is a surprisingly severe problem in dry polar air and so he made sure there were sufficient canteens. He proposed canvas hoods that could be slung over the airplane engine casings until their oil pans could be warmed by portable kerosene heaters. And he inspected with misgiving the troublesome bubble sextants used to help estimate position in a high-latitude region where compasses became unreliable. "These will be hampered by the cold," he warned the German pilots, Reinhard Kauffman and Seigfried Lambert. "The bubbles will distort. You'll have to use them in conjunction with compass and dead reckoning, and above all keep an eye on the weather so you can use landmarks. It's easy to get lost down there."
The men nodded. Their initial wariness at meeting the American had given way to the international fraternity of fliers. "Tell Heiden as well," Kauffman requested. "Your own caution will make him understand ours."
Quickly bonding into a team were Fritz, the irreverent German, and Hart, the amused outsider from America. The pilot was a safe and reliable audience for Fritz's observations on Germany and Fritz exhibited a wry candor the other Germans didn't share.
"Hitler is a want-to-be," the little sailor psychoanalyzed blandly while sucking on a cigarette under soggy Hamburg skies. "The little Austrian who wants to out-German Germany. He's seized on our worst traits, Owen. Everywhere there are rules now: do this, do that, papers please, stamp stamp stamp. His father was a customs official, you know, and now the whole nation is a fucking post office. Oh, Hitler is smart all right, he's a shrewd one, I grant him that. Look how far he's come! And he has the fault of all clever men: he believes his own speeches. Like our earnest Jürgen Drexler."
"Jürgen hasn't given any speeches to me."
"Give him time."
Hart smiled. "And do
you
understand his role aboard?"
"To out-Hitler Hitler, I suspect."
"The captain said he's in the
Allgemeine
division. What's that?"
"What all the Nazi pooh-bahs must belong to. The civilian branch of the SS, the Führer's elite. Drexler's a major. So be careful with him, Owen."
The political liaison never wore a uniform or referred to his rank. Yet when it came time to seek additional supplies his role became more obvious: his whisper of Göring's name sufficed. Hart judged him reflexively competitive, but also competent and seemingly straightforward. On the docks the young Nazi was all business, listening judiciously to the pilot's suggestions, asking intelligent questions, and acting quickly once a decision was made. He seemed a man of serious intent who assumed others shared that intent until they revealed otherwise. He also appeared to respect Hart's experience. Twice Drexler went out of his way to find the pilot and introduce him to visiting functionaries from Berlin, including a reporter from Goebbels's Propaganda Ministry. "This is Owen Hart, our American consultant," he would say. "Mr. Hart is intimately involved in planning the success of our expedition."
Drexler's candor was limited, however. The pilot was puzzled that some of the crates were labeled only by number and stamped with a German eagle. His inquiries as to what they contained brought bored shrugs from the sailors. Cargo net after cargo net was slung into the hold.
"Fritz, what's all this gear?" Hart finally asked. "The
Schwabenland
is going to sink if we put much more aboard."
The mate considered a moment, then elaborately looked first one way, then another. "The German glance," he explained with a wink. His voice fell to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, if you ask Heiden, he'll tell you it helps ballast the boat to keep the propeller below the ice. If you ask Drexler, he'll tell you it's peanuts for the elephant seals. But since you asked me... I've peeked at a bit of it and it seems to be field equipment, construction supplies, even guns. Yes, bang-bang, don't be surprised. I'm not sure all these things are going to come back off the ice. These Nazis don't like to be tourists, you know. They look for places to stay, room to grow. So it looks to me we've enough to start a research camp. Or a whaling station. Or a fucking Hamburg shopping arcade. But that's just me. I'm not a big shot. They tell me less than they do you."
Hart decided to pursue the question with Drexler. He found the blond German sitting alone one evening in a corner of the galley, looking weary but satisfied. Jürgen lifted his glass of cognac as the pilot came in.
"So, Hart," he greeted, "do you think we're ready for the southern continent?"
"As ready as anyone can be," the pilot said, taking a chair. "I can't fault your preparations. The rest is up to Antarctica."
"Well put. And do you feel at home with us?"
Hart considered. "I'm comfortable. It's a much larger ship than the one I was on before."
"It must be strange sailing on a foreign vessel. Do you get homesick?"
"No. My home is wherever I am. My parents were lost in the big Spanish flu epidemic of 1918. I have no other relatives, no house, no job, no plane. I'd have a hard time filling out an employment form, I'm afraid. It's a miracle you hired me."
The German laughed.
"Unattached
is one of the best credentials for an explorer."
"I suppose so."
"And no sweetheart back in America either?" The question was meant to be light, but it had a slight edge to it.
"No, not much luck in that department, I'm afraid. Or skill." He grinned ruefully. "But what about you? I sensed a relationship with Greta Heinz."
The German sipped his cognac. "Greta? She's a good friend. Maybe more someday, who knows? She's also a professional, like us. Tied up in her work. She's coming aboard because she's very, very good in her field."
"How did you meet?"
"Through her... well, Otto introduced us."