The Schwabenland was sluggish, weighted down with hundreds of tons of seawater. It had settled several feet, some of its portholes awash from passing swells. The ship's lean tilted the catapult: takeoff would be awkward. Hart told Heiden to put the stern in a slow arc once the flying boat's engines were at full power, giving him a choice of wind direction and ice conditions to launch into. He'd signal the catapult operator the best moment for release. No one had slept; tension was too high.
While the solstice was past, the long days of January still prevailed in the Southern Hemisphere. By three A.M. Hart judged it light enough to go. Heiden said he was going to slowly steam due north after launch to get clearer of the ice and the pilot nodded, saying he could find them again on that track. "Keep the running lights burning."
Drexler climbed stiffly into the seaplane without saying a word.
Hart glanced over at the empty catapult that had held the Passat. The deck had been swabbed of blood but there'd been no ceremony to mark Kauffman's passing. Now Drexler was uncharacteristically quiet. He sat firmly cinched in the co-pilot seat, staring out the canopy but no doubt seeing only the events of the last few hours.
Hart didn't want his new flying partner to freeze up. "Listen, Jurgen, I credit your courage for coming along," the pilot grudgingly offered as he checked his instruments. "I know you don't like airplanes and this isn't ideal flying. But the Dornier is a tough, tough craft. We should be fine."
There was a long silence and Hart thought maybe Drexler was paying no attention. Then the German finally replied. "Do you really think I care what happens to me right now? I only want to find shelter for Schwabenland. My fear, or lack of it, is inconsequential after my… error." He swallowed. "I tried and failed. All I have left is duty."
Just what we need, romantic fatalism, Hart thought. "Fine. But I still have my hide, and your duty is to help me keep it. So keep a lid on the German stoic crap, please, and try to help us survive." Drexler refused to turn to look at him. "And if you vomit, do it in the head. Or you can walk home."
The Nazi swung around then. "If you do any of your damned aerial acrobatics, I will make sure I vomit on you."
Hart's mouth set into its characteristic half grin of tension. "I see we understand each other. Contact!" There was a barking cough and then a roar as the engine came to life. The pilot ran it to full power and gave a thumbs-up, answered by the catapult crew. The stern began to slowly pivot and the American spotted an ice-free lane in which they could put down if anything went wrong, the waves dangerously heaving. When they were almost centered his thumb went up again. There was the bang, the hiss, the jolt… and then they were off the ship, awkwardly tipped a moment because of the lean of the stern, dipping a wing toward black water. Then climbing, banking to skim past a massive iceberg.
The familiar feeling of liberated exhilaration came back. Hart wished he had fuel to fly all the way to America.
They'd decided to search eastward since the ship had yet to explore that way. The problem was visibility. Towers of cloud were everywhere, leaking snow from long black tendrils. A milky haze hung on the sea. Hart looked over at Drexler. His skin wasn't green but the German's hands still clutched the seat and cockpit rim. Hart rapped on the compass to get his attention. "Start counting!" If they were going to find the ship again the political liaison would have to keep scrupulous track of their direction, speed, and winds to allow them to dead-reckon where they were in relationship to the Schwabenland. Drexler swallowed hard, blinked, and then bent to get paper and stopwatch. He was sweating slightly but favored Hart with a wan expression of reassurance.
The plane hit an air pocket and sickeningly dropped. Drexler's hands dropped with it, seizing the seat and spilling his clipboard. Then the plane rose again, bouncing, and- his mouth set in a firm line of determination this time- the German picked up the clipboard and began writing. The pen shook slightly, but he did it.
They flew in silence for a while. Hart realized he was sweating too, despite the cold. There was a very real chance they'd find nothing and the Germans would have to try to limp across the stormiest waters in the world in a punctured ship. Worse, he and Drexler might be unable to get back aboard. He could see little but gray overcast. These were the conditions he always feared, a featureless blankness that swallowed planes whole. Drexler's needless showdown may already have doomed them.
"You don't like us very much, do you?"
It was startling to have the quiet broken. The German's voice was flat.
"Who?"
"Us. The Germans. National Socialists."
Hart considered a moment. "Maybe." He decided to be honest. "Maybe I just don't like you."
"Yes, that's obvious. Many people don't, I know. I'm not popular. Respected, perhaps. But not popular. I'm serious, obsessed with my work, with the Party, with Germany. People… resent that. Don't understand it. They know I'm not like them- that I'm not content with competent mediocrity."
Hart looked over at him. "You just need to stop trying to carry the world on your shoulders, that's all."
Drexler smiled. "Of course. And yet at some point we all carry that which we might rather not, because it's become a part of us. Yes?"
Hart sighed. "We all struggle with who we are, Jurgen. But I don't think ramming a ship and starting a battle is excused by one's personality. Nor is it the best way to win friends and influence people. You know, a book on that subject came out recently, an American book. Maybe you should read it."
"Ha! Americans! Obsessed with friends. With popularity. So much that they write and read books about it. Yet I don't think you're popular either, Hart."
"Maybe I haven't read the book."
"No, I would guess not. One trick in this book, I suspect, is to figure out why people truly don't like you."
"You sound like you're trying to figure that out."
"Whether, in other words, it is really me they don't like, or something else. A jealousy. An envy. A desperate longing to belong."
"Belong to what?"
"A cause. A country. A purpose."
Now Hart gave a short laugh. "Envy of black shirts and skull insignia and silver daggers? The trouble with you Nazis is that you'd rather be feared than liked."
"There's no menace intended. You're referring to the uniform of our Hitler Guard, our Schutzstaffel mountaineers. It's simply an elite unit. Like your American marines."
"The marines don't dress like gangsters or pirates."
"That's naive. Every strong nation has its fierce traditions. Similar uniforms and insignia were worn by some of the elite Prussian regiments that fought Napoleon. The swastika is a medieval design. There's nothing sinister. Simply pride in the order and discipline that we stand for."
"Too much pride. That's why Kauffman's dead and our ship half sunk. That's why I don't like you, Jurgen. Nazi pride."
"No, Owen, it's something else and you know it. You envy my sense of purpose, of belonging. Even if you won't admit it to yourself."
The pilot didn't reply.
The island, when they found it, seemed so favorable in its geography that Hart would later have an eerie sense of predestination. It initially loomed like a cloud bank, so ill-defined that the pilot was inclined to dismiss it when Drexler first pointed hesitantly in that direction. As they neared, however, parts of the cloud took on rigid definition and what had seemed to be mist was suddenly revealed to be a hard ridge of snow. A mountain rose out of the cold gray sea, ice girdling its rocky coastline.
Hart flew cautiously, trying to discern the island's outline in its shroud of swirling cloud. He made a long circuit and identified two peaks a dozen miles apart, presumably connected, but the island's lower reaches were too fogged to be sure. Drexler was intently scanning the coastline, his unease in the air forgotten by the excitement of finding land. "I don't see a bay yet," he reported.
"I'm going to fly over the top to look for a break in the cloud. We might bump a couple of times." The overcast was thick enough that Hart was quickly blind. The plane jostled in the turbulent air and the pilot prayed he'd climbed high enough that they wouldn't slam into an unseen peak.
A strong updraft hit the Dornier and the pilot's nose tightened. "What's that?"
Drexler sniffed. "Sulfur." A moment's bewilderment gave way to understanding. "Volcano, I think. We're passing over it."
They came out of their own cloud and looked down at others. It was as if the island was in a cocoon. Then a curtain of overcast parted to reveal a curving knifelike ridge with a crest of dark rocks like stitching on the snow. The rim of another volcano? Beyond it the overcast thinned further. Water. Then snow again.
"What the hell?" Hart circled. Clouds teased them, swirling in and out, but slowly the terrain revealed itself like a series of snapshots. Part of the island was a crater, a volcanic crater filled with water. And at one point on the wall- there?-no, clouds again… yes! A slot led from the caldera to the sea. Torn apart at one side by a violent explosion, the old crater formed a bay of the Southern Ocean.
It was the snuggest harbor Hart had ever seen: a bowl with a gate, perfectly protected from storm. If the sea channel and lagoon were deep enough the Schwabenland could obtain ideal shelter. Drexler uncharacteristically whooped and pounded on Hart's shoulder. "We found it!"
Then it was gone again, shrouded by storm. Hart looked at the fuel gauge. They might just make it. "Can you find the ship again?"
The German nodded, newly determined. "Of course." With purpose the old confidence was returning. He studied his notes. "Steer west-northwest for two hundred and eleven kilometers." He peered down at the whitecaps on the ocean. "We still can't land, can we?"
Hart shook his head. "The wind would flip us like a toy before they could pick us up. We need to find the ship, drop instructions, and get back to that crater before we run out of fuel. I wish these planes had a spare radio."
Drexler nodded. "Already planned. For next year's expedition."
The galley had prepared three old flour sacks as aerial "bombs," filling them with dried peas for weight. Drexler calculated the island's direction and distance from the Schwabenland, copied it three times, and inserted each in a sack and tied it up.
Hart flew on through squalls, the seaplane rattling, fuel slowly eroding, always looking for the ship. At Drexler's calculated rendezvous point they were flying in milk. He dropped to three hundred feet to get below the ceiling. No such luck. He swung north.
"Christ!" It was the German. The tooth of a towering iceberg passed just beneath the belly of the plane. "Can't you pull up, Hart?"
"Not if we're going to find the ship."
Then they broke clear and there it was, tilted to starboard in a stormy sea streaked with foam, its lights blazing as requested. Waves were throwing spray across the catapult deck. "Get ready!" Hart said. "I'll pass over. Aim for the stack!"
Drexler nodded, crawling back to the hatch. There was a shriek of wind as he opened it. The American approached the ship from its starboard side, tiny figures waving. He shot by at two hundred feet, banked hard… and the first bomb whizzed briskly past the smokestack and made a neat splash in the sea. Damn. One fewer pot of pea soup on the way home.
Drexler crawled back up. "I missed."
"Let's try again! I'll come in lower, up the length of the ship!" He began to turn. The stern of the ship came into view again.
Come on, Hart breathed to himself. It worked with Ramona. "Let go just before we reach the stern!"
This time the pilot aimed his airplane directly for the stack, determined to just barely clear it as he flew the length of the ship. He roared over close enough that some of the sailors ducked… yes!
He circled. A group had clustered around the sack of dropped peas and then waved madly. The hatch shut and Drexler came back, his face raw with cold. "Perfect hit," he said, grinning. "One to spare." He held up the third message sack.
"Save it until we get to a post office."
Hart turned to the east again, glancing at the fuel gauge. One third left. The German handed him the course and coordinates, all business now, his fear of the airplane under control. "Good job, Jurgen." The partnership gave him new respect for the man.
"And good flying," the German allowed. "The message aboard, my stomach intact… maybe God's on our side after all."
"We'll know that when we put down inside that lagoon."
The island was not difficult to find on the return trip. The overcast was breaking up and the volcanic shape became more distinct as they neared. There were two main mountains, Hart saw: the crater with its harbor and behind it a higher, steeper, narrower volcano with a wispy plume of steam coming off the top. Ridges and valleys connected the two and glaciers stuck out from the flanks like tongues, feeding ice into the sea. The crater looked too deep and narrow to fly into from above so he dropped to fifty feet and aimed for the slot in the volcano's flank, skimming the wave tops. No second chances: the gas gauge was on empty. The pilot hoped winds wouldn't blow them into the cliffs.
Eruptions of spray were coming off rocks near the narrow entrance. The seaplane passed over a small flat berg, a sapphire in an otherwise monochrome world. The engine coughed and the plane dipped an instant, its propeller on fumes. Don't give up yet! Then they were in the slot through the side of the crater, water welling up from the ocean swells below to curdle with foam, wet basalt cliffs on either side, spray spattering the canopy… and on into the foggy caldera, its shorelines shrouded, the surface relatively calm. Hart dropped the seaplane quickly, the floats skidding with a hiss. They were safe, the Boreas at heel. Its nose slowly rotated, looking for a place to tie up.
"My God."
It was Drexler. He was looking back toward the caldera entrance. Hart turned too, the airplane slowly pivoting in that direction. The engine coughed again, then caught. "Come on baby, just a bit more…"
The pilot stared. There against the shore, its bow reaching vainly toward the harbor entrance, was a half-sunken, snow-encrusted ship, its stern underwater as if pulled down while trying to escape. Fog and flakes of snow whipped past its ice-coated superstructure. At its bow like a menacing figurehead was the muzzle of a harpoon, pointed to the cliff face above.
"I think we've found the missing Bergen," the German said. "The Norwegians never came off this island."