"Help me, Owen!" It was Kauffman. The German pilot wanted to carry his injured friend below. Nodding, the American took Lambert's legs as Kauffman did his shoulders and they carried him to a hatchway. They could hear heavier bullets striking the
Schwabenland:
more of the Norwegians were firing back, probably with hunting rifles. The two pilots accidentally slammed Lambert's shoulder into the hatch coaming as they were dragging him through and he yelped in pain.
"For God's sake, let me walk to the infirmary, you idiots! It's not that bad unless you finish me off."
They set him down. "Sorry, Siegfried," Kauffman said, gasping for breath. "We weren't prepared for this."
"Now I have to face that animal doctor Schmidt. Of all the luck..."
The companionway steps rang from pounding feet above and Drexler was on top of them, breathless and excited. "You two!" he shouted at Kauffman and Hart. "Get to the planes! The one with the working radio! We need to use the advantage we have; you're going to take some of my troops up with you and end this once and for all!"
"What?" Kauffman asked.
"We have some grenades, some explosives. We're going to attack from both air and sea and end this as quickly as we can, before more Germans are hurt!"
Hart groaned. "Jürgen, you're going to bomb them? For Christ's sake, let's break this off before someone gets— "
"Silence! Another word from you and I'll have you tossed overboard! If you don't want a part of this, coward, then get below!"
"I'll be damned if I'm going to bomb— "
"Fine. You're out of it. You!" He pointed at Kauffman. "Get the plane warmed up. That's an order."
Kauffman had paled. "Jürgen, Owen is right— "
"Now,
dammit! They fired first. They're lunatics! Crazy men! Do you want more of your shipmates hit?"
Kauffman bit his lip, agonizing. "Is this an order?"
"On the authority of Hermann Göring and the SS!"
"I want it in writing."
"I'll carve it in stone! Now go!"
He nodded unhappily. "All right."
"Go back on the starboard side in case there's more gunfire. You'll be shielded."
"Yes, Major." He left for the plane. Drexler bounded back up to the bridge.
Hart helped Lambert walk down to the infirmary and then stood inside the ship, undecided. The
Schwabenland
tilted first one way, then another, swerving as it danced with the Norwegians. He was tired of being called a coward. He walked aft to where the seaplane catapults were. The propellers of
Passat
were beginning to spin and the
Aurora Australis
appeared headed for them again. Hart ran to the airplane's hatch and climbed inside. Looking down the dim fuselage he saw four of the mountaineers crouched there, sorting out hand grenades. One had a submachine gun. Everyone has gone mad, he thought. Kauffman was studying his instruments in the cockpit. "I'll co-pilot, Reinhard," the American offered grimly. "It's wrong to stick you with this lunacy alone."
The German glanced back and shook his head. "No, get out of the plane, Owen. I appreciate the gesture but better that only one of us has to live with this. With any luck, I'll end this quickly and chase them away."
"If they shoot and hit you..."
"They won't. All they've got is a few rifles. Get out."
"I'm not leaving, dammit."
"Get out now! Now! Look, they're approaching, I need to get us off! Please!"
Hart looked. The whaler was looming closer again. Gunfire crackled. For God's sake, what was Jansen doing? He hesitated just a moment longer.
"All right." To hell with it. Let the Germans have their war.
Hart dropped out of the plane's belly and a sailor slammed the hatchway shut. The engine howled and the airplane shivered, ready to go. Hart backed away toward the
Boreas.
Kauffman glanced outside, grinning fiercely, and gave a thumbs-up. Beyond, the American could see the looming hull of the
Aurora Australis.
A crewman reached to fire the catapult.
Before he could launch, there was another bang and then an explosion.
The cockpit of the
Passat
disintegrated, pieces of metal skittering across the stern deck of the German ship. Hart was hit with a spatter of blood. Then the whaler was swerving steeply away, leaning, a line drawn from the shattered airplane cockpit to the Norwegian's bow.
"Jesus!" The flying boat had been hit with the whaler's explosive-tipped harpoon. Now the flanges of its head were buried in the remains of the cockpit, pulling at the Dornier. Reinhard Kauffman was dead, his remains hurled at Hart and the stunned sailors. The mountaineers inside were shouting as the plane began to tip. A soldier tumbled from its belly, then another.
The
Passat
tore free of its catapult, one wing dipping over the
Schwabenland
's side. It caught for a moment, leaned precariously, and then lurched. The harpoon line snapped but the pressure had been enough. The airplane toppled into the sea with a crash.
"Men overboard!" The cry went up around the ship.
Sailors ran to fling life rings at the bobbing airplane. The
Schwabenland
's engines slowed and the ship began a tight turn. The two remaining mountaineers popped up in the ocean next to their airplane and swam onto its wing.
"Lifeboat! Man the lifeboat!" The craft began to be lowered. The shattered seaplane was slowly filling, the mountaineers sinking with it, the wing shining blue as it was enveloped by cold water. The lifeboat hit the water with a splash and reached the mountaineers just as the airplane sunk out from under them, still looking as if it was trying to fly as it slid into the deep. The soldiers were hauled aboard half dead from the shock of the water, ice forming on their clothes.
Then with a whoosh and cloud of white steam, a crewman released the air pressure on the port catapult. Its usefulness was over.
The
Aurora Australis
was fleeing and Hart assumed the Germans would let it go. Drexler came running back to the stern after the Norwegian harpooning, wild with frustration. He stopped and stared in disbelief at the chaos.
"What happened?"
"They speared us," one of the sailors said.
Drexler looked at the red-stained stern of the retreating whaler. "Who was hurt?"
"Two of the soldiers almost drowned. Reinhard is dead." The sailor's voice was wooden, numbed by shock.
Drexler's eyes flitted around nervously. "What about the other plane?"
No one answered him.
"Who could fly the other plane?"
Again, no answer. His gaze jerked around, then settled on Hart.
The pilot stared menacingly back at him. It was a look that spoke volumes. There would be no more flying today.
"That murdering bastard," Drexler muttered. Then he turned and ran back toward the bridge.
As he watched the German leave, Hart realized he was trembling from reaction. Reinhard Kauffman had unwittingly saved his life by ordering him out of the plane. Yet, what kind of destiny did Hart confront now, with Drexler having created an international incident that was certain to overshadow whatever the expedition had accomplished?
From the ship's motion in the rising swells, the pilot could tell they were picking up speed again. The added wind was cold. He stood up to see. The stern was temporarily deserted but he noticed a commotion toward the bow. The SS troops were piling loose crates and gear to form a barricade and laying weapons behind it. Hart's chill increased. He stiffly climbed up on the catapult to get a better view ahead. They were steaming south at full speed into an archipelago of icebergs, still chasing the
Aurora Australis,
its stern a taunting lure. The horizon was shrinking as the wind grew. Feder's storm was coming.
Enough is enough.
Hart began walking back to the bridge. Twice he saw bullet holes. Brass shell casings rolled and tinkled on the canting deck like strewn toys. Madness!
The bridge was a welcome pocket of heat but Drexler swung on him immediately.
"I told you to stay away!"
Hart ignored him, turning to Heiden. "Captain, as an expedition member with experience in Antarctic waters, I must protest our speed and course. The ice and weather make it entirely unsafe."
"Hart, I want you below!"
"Captain?"
Heiden was silent.
"Captain, you know I'm right. You've been in the Arctic. Or ask Feder. This is risky."
The gap between the two ships was slowly narrowing. A berg the size of a city block slid by on the port side, its underwater bulk like a swollen blue cheese.
"We're pursuing a criminal, Hart," Drexler said. "A ship which killed one of our company. Destroyed one of our planes."
"Captain Heiden, please."
Heiden finally swiveled in his chair to address the pilot. "We can't end it like this. Or we're finished anyway."
"That's better than sinking!"
"No it isn't." Heiden was resigned. "Things have gone too far, Hart. We'll close in half an hour."
"But what are we going to do if we catch them?"
"I don't know." He nodded toward Drexler.
The political liaison turned away, fixing his gaze on the stern of the whaling ship. An ice floe banged against the hull, ringing it like a bell.
"Barometer is still dropping," Feder said worriedly into the hush. "It's growing dark."
Hart glanced around. The Germans avoided his gaze. Ahead, the
Aurora Australis
was disappearing into a cold fog. Flakes of snow drifted down.
Drexler bent to the intercom. "I need more speed!"
"Jürgen, we're not going to be able to see," Feder warned.
The liaison nodded. "Two men out on the wings, listening for surf on the ice."
Heiden issued the order.
Hart noticed that the helmsman was sweating. "This is crazy," the pilot insisted.
No one answered. The atmosphere was one of controlled fury. Instead of losing his grip on the group, Drexler had strengthened it. Defeated, Hart clomped down the stairs toward the galley, feeling impotent.
Greta was there, a mug of tea in front of her, staring at the table. Hart hesitated a moment, then got some coffee and slumped into a chair across from her. The biologist's hair hung around her face like a curtain and her hands were splayed on the surface as if she were examining them for the first time.
Slowly she looked up. Her eyes were moist. Whatever had divided the pair was momentarily forgotten. "I didn't think our sampling would lead to
that,"
she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "I didn't think men would go that far."
Hart let her words hang in the air. Then he said: "This voyage was always about politics, not science, wasn't it?"
She looked at him fiercely. "It was about
both.
You can't separate so neatly— it's naive to think you can. Everything we humans do is confused by human relationships. That's what made me so angry on the beach— that you recognized that element in regards to my own presence aboard. Of
course
Jürgen made a difference. Of course he's a reason I'm here, me instead of any of a hundred other biologists. That doesn't mean I know what to feel, how to behave, what standard I can use to judge myself. What role I've really played."
Hart inwardly winced. She was blaming herself. "Greta, you're not responsible for Jürgen Drexler. Or Sigvald Jansen."
"I'm responsible for me."
He reached out and placed his hand on hers. It was cold to his touch and his was larger, like a blanket. She didn't pull away. "We do our best and go on," he said. "The lucky ones know how to pray. I had a friend who believed angels sat on your shoulder."
She laughed at that. "Sounds like my nuns." For a moment her thoughts were far away and then the sadness came back. "But we don't look for magic any longer, it seems, we look for resources." The last word was bitter. "Owen, I don't want to help Germany hunt whales any longer."
He held her hand now, his fingers against her palm, marveling at her fineness. He nodded. "You won't have to. I think we're about done down here— "
But his sentence was cut off by an enormous boom, so loud it was as if they were suspended inside a drum. They were jerked off their chairs and hurled onto the deck amid a cascade of splintering crockery and clattering tableware. There was a long, grating, terrifying squeal of tortured metal. Then the lights went out.
She felt for him in the dark. "What happened?"
"Ice, I think. They gambled and lost." He could hear confused shouts, the pounding of feet, the slamming of hatches. Maybe gushing water too, or perhaps he was imagining that. He struggled to sit up, the deck tilt not too severe yet. "Are you all right?" Dim light, he noticed, still filtered through the galley portholes.
"I think so. It hurt, but I think so." She sat up too, holding on to his sweater. "I'm sorry. I'm frightened."
"So am I. We're a long ways from help." He was reluctant to leave her touch but he gently moved her hands to her lap for a moment and stood up. His feet slid on loose shards of dishes as he staggered to a porthole. A wall of ice filled his view. The ship groaned as it rose and fell in clumsy embrace with the berg as the ice leveraged a wider gash in the hull.
The pilot went back to Greta and boosted her up. Her hand in his was electric, sensual, like an act of sex. He could feel his pulse quickening.
Like a schoolboy,
he thought. "Let's try to get to the bridge."
He led up the companionway toward the bridge, listening to the creak of torn metal and the rattle of skittering debris as the ship rolled. Then the lights flickered, once, twice, and came back on. A sailor was above them and she dropped his hand as if it were hot. He noticed now the reassuring thud of the engine. It seemed to be shifting from forward to reverse in an effort to move the ship off the ice.
The expedition officers were clustered around the wheel. Sailors continued to shout, some of the voices pitched unnaturally high. The iceberg had slipped away and the
Schwabenland
was backing with a wallow, leaning to starboard where they had struck.