She stabbed. The needle went into Schmidt's shoulder near his neck and the doctor squealed, letting go to claw at the agonizing sting. As he did so she shoved as hard as she could. He lurched sideways and there was a splintering crash. The crude workbench broke from its supports and the beakers, flasks and glass petri dishes with their agar films of plague culture shattered, bits skittering across the laboratory. Like a reproducing fungus, a puff of spores from a broken test tube blossomed into the air.
Schmidt, ensnared in the wreckage, looked goggle-eyed in horror. The hypodermic needle jutted from his shoulder as if sucking at the droplet of bright blood that appeared there. Bits of glass and microbial culture littered his skin. He lifted himself on his elbows. "You've infected me!" he gasped in disbelief. Reaching, he jerked the hypodermic out of his shoulder, groaning. "He was so
weak
to bring you..."
She brought the cylinder of algal drug powder down on the doctor's head. There was a solid thud and he fell back, unconscious.
"Shut
up,
you old ghoul." The words were a croak from her sore throat.
She listened, but all she heard was the hum of the ship. Schmidt would have closed the hatch when he came down. So.
Think. Consider the variables.
She took a shuddering breath.
God what a mess!
Numbly, almost automatically, she tipped the remaining containers of the cave organism toward the oily bilge. It was the best she could do with her shaking tremble. Schmidt remained still. She had no idea if he was alive or dead and was too frightened to inspect him. Too much in shock to care.
Think!
She hefted the cylinder of the drug. The germs were loose, thrown everywhere by the fight: she probably carried some on her clothes. She needed to treat herself. And Owen. And... The hum of the ship. My God. She looked at the ventilator opening, exchanging air, sucking in spores. But if she took the remaining drug with her...
If she took it and the submarine turned into a
Bergen,
all these men would die.
The realization made her ashen.
And if she left it? If they lived they could still return to Germany with the disease and enough of the cure organism to begin culture and reproduction. If they lived, they could still hunt Owen and herself down.
Schmidt groaned, stirring. Unless she wanted to kill him right now, she didn't have much time.
What would her nuns say?
What would Owen say?
Schmidt moaned again. Damn him! She brought the cylinder down on his head and he slumped a second time, lying still. She taped his mouth, hands, and ankles. Why hadn't he stayed away? Then, grimly tucking the drug tank under one arm, she climbed out of the U-boat and hurried back to the motor launch, jumping aboard.
"It's done," she whispered.
* * *
Owen said she'd done the right thing. The only thing.
"They're murderers, Greta. They tried to kill me." The couple were driving hard for the beach, fearful that Schmidt might somehow stagger out of the laboratory and sound the alarm. Every yard of cold water gave them an added feeling of safety.
"It was the SS that tried to kill you, Owen. Not the sailors." She shivered, her eyes moist.
"Nonsense. Those bastards gave the Nazi salute when
Jürgen laid out his plans. They're part of it."
She leaned on him. "I know, I know. But to condemn sixty men,
fellow Germans
, to— "
"They condemned themselves."
"Do you think that will keep them from my dreams?"
"Dreams! What about our waking nightmare! God willing, you've saved millions of people. Millions! The only person you haven't saved yet is yourself."
A white shelf appeared out of the dark: the beach. They crunched against it and Hart cut the motor. "From here we walk." He'd thought about their situation while waiting by the sub for Greta to return. "If we take the launch they'll hunt us by sea but if we leave it they'll comb the island first. That should buy some time."
Her face drained. "If we leave it, Jürgen will reach the submarine."
Owen nodded, looking at her hard. "I
want
him to, Greta."
She said nothing.
"I want him to catch the plague."
She looked out at the night in horror.
"Listen, Greta, I can't make this choice for you. I can't and expect you not to doubt me the rest of our days. So you can take the cylinder back right now, save those men, and sail for Germany. You'll be a savior to those sailors, and far more likely to survive than if you come with me. You can be loyal to the Reich. You can save your husband. Or you can throw it all away— every bit of it— and come with me on this one wild crazy scheme to get away from this island. A chance that will probably kill us both."
She actually smiled at that. "You're so persuasive. So why would I ever come with you?"
"Because I love you."
She nodded. "You make a good argument," she said finally. "It's exactly the one I would make." For an instant she looked up at the stars, seeming to search for something. Then she said: "I go with
you.
"
He smiled. "Then let's hurry, before dawn comes. We'll share the antibiotic when we get out of sight of the sub."
* * *
Drexler led his men down off the crater rim at dawn, cold and exhausted. The storm was blowing itself out but it had been an abominable night of grim slogging and futile shouts and fired flares. The three SS men had simply disappeared. What a foul island!
Jürgen was frustrated. The mouth of the cave had been blown up as he'd ordered. Had the idiots somehow killed themselves? There was no sign. Or gotten lost in the storm? Again no sign. Something tickled in the back of his mind; some part of their search that remained uncompleted. Yet he couldn't think what it was. Now everyone was half frozen and uneasy. They needed some food and warmth and rest in the submarine.
The launch was where they'd left it, grounded on the beach. But the sentry was missing. Jürgen scowled in disgust.
"Where's Johann?"
The SS sergeant frowned. "He was supposed to stay with the boat. He should be right here."
"
I know
he should be right here! Where is he?"
"Perhaps he went back to the U-boat in the storm?"
"How could he get back to the U-boat without this launch, idiot?"
The sergeant stiffened. "Yes, sir."
Drexler fumed. The elimination of Hart hadn't left him feeling triumphant this time. He dreaded having to face Greta and tell her the American was missing again, lost in the cave or the storm. He doubted she'd believe him. It would be a relief to finally be done with her, he told himself. Yes. A relief.
"This damn island is swallowing my men! I don't like it! I want to get out of here!" He looked at the others. There was no disagreement. "Well. Into the launch."
They motored to the U-boat. "Have you seen Johann Prien?" Drexler called to the sailors as they climbed wearily aboard.
"Came alongside last night," one replied tiredly. "As you requested."
Drexler frowned. "What?"
"To get the woman. The packs."
"Greta? My wife?"
"Yes. He said you sent a message and then she went with him." He peered curiously at the group, noticing the missing SS men were not there.
"I sent no message." The man looked surprised and a glimmer of dread began to shine on Drexler's brain. "You actually saw Johann?"
"Yes, of course. In the boat."
"I mean, you saw his face? You recognized him?"
The sailor began to comprehend. "No... It was dark. No one could recognize anyone last night."
Drexler's men were already dropping down the hatch into the submarine. The colonel's disquiet was growing. "Could this man have been the American?"
"I thought the American was with you."
"Jesus Christ. And Greta went with this man?"
"Yes." The sailor looked at Drexler with a cringe of sympathy.
"Fuck." It was a snarl. "Fuck! Where's Dr. Schmidt?"
"Below, I suppose. I haven't seen him."
Drexler dropped down to the main deck and yanked off his parka, stomping aft in his boots. "Max?" he roared. He found Freiwald. "Where's our damn doctor?"
The captain looked at Drexler with dislike. "I don't keep track of your party, Colonel. How would I know? Try your laboratory."
Drexler peered down. The hatch was closed but that was normal. He climbed down and opened it. "Max?" No answer. There were shards of glass on the deck. The chamber stank. He dropped into it with a premonition of dread. "Great God."
It looked like a bomb had hit. The planks of the workbench had splintered and the deck was littered with shards of petri dishes and their microbial goo. There was a stench reminiscent of the underground lake. All the containers so laboriously carried from the cave were empty. Schmidt lay writhing, trussed in tape. His head was bloody.
The U-boat captain descended the ladder after Drexler and then stopped in fearful shock. "Get out of here," the SS colonel ordered. "Close the hatch."
Jürgen began cutting Schmidt free. As the tape was yanked painfully off his mouth the doctor howled. He gasped for breath.
"Was it Hart, Max? Did that pilot do this?"
Schmidt spat, clutching his head. "Frau Greta Drexler"—Schmidt pronounced the name with acid— "did this. She caught me by surprise and shoved me into the lab bench. She contaminated the ship."
Now Drexler was ashen, remembering the horror of the
Bergen.
"She's a serpent," he muttered. "I married a Medusa."
"Is she insane?"
"She is when the American is around."
"I thought he was supposed to be dead."
Jürgen ignored this. "Do we still have the weapon? Do we still have the cure?"
Schmidt sat up, holding his head, and looked around with a wince. "I secreted the spores away because I remembered her emotional fit the last time. But not the drug. It looks like she dumped what we had and took the concentrate with her. Did you bring more from the cave?"
Drexler felt a tiresome buzzing in his head as he contemplated the wreckage of all his plans, all his hopes. "No. My men never emerged."
"Well, we can get more, yes?"
"No, Max. The cave is demolished. My men may never have gotten out."
"But you just said Hart was out!"
"That's my suspicion." He said it in a small voice. "Greta would never do this alone." He looked at the splinters of petri dish. "This means we're dead men, Max, unless we catch her. If she has the drug she's our only hope." He swallowed and glanced at the ladder. "I closed the hatch. Maybe it won't spread."
"You must be joking." Schmidt pointed at the vents. "We're talking about escaping germs, not escaping rabbits. It's been sucked all over the ship by now. Everyone is infected. It will be like the
Bergen.
Why on earth did you trust her?"
Drexler looked hollow. "I didn't trust her. I thought I could control her." Then he glared at Schmidt. "Thought
you
could control her! My God, trussed up by a woman?"
"By a sneaking, conniving— "
Drexler held up his hand, suddenly weary. "All right. Enough. Enough recrimination. How much time do we have before the symptoms appear?"
Schmidt shook his head. "Hours. Maybe a day."
"And where did she go? Where on the island did they hide? Another cave?"
"Good point," said Schmidt. "They can't have gone far on an island. Maybe we can find them and get the drug back." He thought a moment. "And they can't operate a submarine, not alone. They can't leave Antarctica without us. If we die, they die, no?"
"I don't think they plan to die. They're too infatuated with each other for self-sacrifice."
"Then they have an alternate plan," Schmidt reasoned. "A radio. A rescue. An airplane..."
Mention of the plane jogged Drexler's memory. The lonely Dornier he'd spied on the snowy plateau the last trip, the seaplane that had allowed the American's escape. So there had to be a vehicle this time as well, yes? But where? Ah, of course. Now he remembered! Now he realized what they'd missed on last night's search! The couple's furtive discussion at the cave mouth! The tiny bay they'd surveyed together. That was their escape hatch! There was something there. Something to get them out. That was where they'd run.
He hauled up Schmidt. "I know where they're going, I think. A bay on the other side of the volcano below the new cave. We can intercept them there. Not over the rim: that takes too long. Around by sea. If we do that, we live."
Schmidt looked at the SS colonel with hope. They banged open the hatch and climbed out. "Freiwald!"
The captain was in the control room looking worried. "Aren't you letting out the— "
"It's already out," Drexler said brusquely. "It's all over the ship. You're breathing it now." The submariner looked aghast. "Never mind that. How soon can we get underway?"
"Our plan was not to go for a day or two."
"Our plans have obviously changed."
The captain frowned. "I had the engineers strip the diesels. We're doing some routine maintenance. It will take several hours to put them back together."
"What?"
"We can't sail before noon."
Schmidt looked dumbly at his watch. "Good God."
"We can't wait that long," Jürgen said. "I'll take the motor launch and my men to catch them. You follow in the submarine. Captain, if you don't get this boat moving soon, all of you are going to die. Do you understand? Owen Hart and my wife have escaped with the antibiotic and they're our only hope."
Freiwald nodded fearfully and opened his mouth to say something.
Instead, he sneezed.
"God bless you," said Schmidt.
The slender reed that supported the couple's hope of escape looked to Greta's weary mind like a cradle in the snow, a refuge into which she wanted to curl and sleep until they were far, far away. It wouldn't be that easy, of course. The lifeboat's very presence was a grim reminder of how difficult it might prove to get away from the Antarctic island. The two surviving Norwegians from the
Bergen
had tried and failed.