"Why hasn't he returned?"
Greta stared out at a darkening world. Atropos Island was gray, fogged by increasing snow, and the sea was growing rougher. They could see spray hurling skyward at the caldera entrance as the swells built, the Schwabenland wallowing miserably as it crept to maintain station in case Boreas came back. Icebergs drifted by like dreadnoughts, Heiden periodically snapping orders to change course slightly to stay out of their way. Yet there was no sign of Owen Hart. Nor had the field radio taken by the mountaineers issued any more calls. The crew was anxious. Even high on their bridge the officers could hear the labor of pumps keeping thudding pace with the slow leakage around the iceberg patch in the hull. The leak was still manageable but as the swells had mounded and the ship creaked, the invasion of cold seawater had grown worse.
"I told you it was madness to let him go," Feder fretted. "And madness to stay here waiting when we should be making for a proper port. We seem determined to compound one mistake with another."
"How can you say we shouldn't wait when he may just be pinned down by weather?" Greta demanded.
"Because if we wait too long we may be pinned as well!"
"That's quite enough, Alfred," Heiden growled. "We're in no danger of sinking. And if you two hens want to cackle at each other, do it off the bridge."
Feder scowled. "I just want it on record that I pointed out the dangerous weather the first time we got into trouble out here."
"Recorded. Now, silence!"
Drexler saw an opportunity and moved close to Greta, careful not to try touching her yet. "I know how fond you've become of Hart," he offered quietly. "I understand your worry. But he's a resourceful outdoorsman. I'm sure he's all right."
She sighed. "It's just so frustrating to have him all alone out there so soon after- " She stopped. "It's just so hard to wait, Jurgen. And what if I was wrong about the cave organism? What if he trusted me and flew off to his death from the disease?"
"That's nonsense. You acted on the best knowledge you had. We're all struggling. You, Hart, myself. And didn't you try it in your bottle? It must do some kind of good."
"I just wish I was sure."
"Could you try it on the cultures?"
"Owen took all the antidote." She hesitated. "And besides, the cultures are gone."
"What?"
"I destroyed them, Jurgen. I warned you I would. We've had enough death."
He looked at her in shock. Careful, he thought. Control your emotions or you'll lose her. She'll run away.
"Are you angry?"
He swallowed. "Surprised," he managed. "It seems… unscientific."
She looked away.
"Well." His face twisted in dismay. "I'd hoped to bring something back to Germany, but…" Preserve what you have, some instinct told him. He tried a different tack: "You and I have had some differences, Greta. But that hasn't changed my… my feelings for you. Whatever has happened, please remember: I'm still your friend."
She nodded, looking relieved. "Thank you. I value that, Jurgen."
He turned away to hide his wince.
The hike to the plane exhausted Fritz. The Boreas was behind a ridge on the opposite side of the lake from where the mountaineers had died and the little sailor insisted on minimizing the distance by cutting across its frozen surface. But as Hart warned, the eroded frozen waves proved a slippery nightmare difficult to scramble over. They both fell several times. Worse, their subsequent direction up the valley wall in the growing snow drifted off course and they got themselves onto the snowy crust of a glacier. They trudged mindlessly up its gloomy slope until there was a crack and Fritz almost dropped out of sight.
"My God!" he cried, scrambling away. "Now the island is trying to devour me!"
Hart cautiously crept to the edge of the crevasse and peered into its blue twilight. From its depths he felt an even deeper chill, from walls as hard as steel. "You're lucky."
"And your guiding skills have not improved."
"Conceded. Are you all right?"
Fritz sighed. "I ache, Owen. It's… frightening." The pilot gave him more of the drug. The supply was already nearly gone.
Hart carefully led their way back off the glacier and up a snow-dusted pumice slope. Eventually, breathing hard, they gained the ridge and came out on the plateau. The wind was shrieking. The seaplane was still there, snow drifting against its ski-converted floats and its wing tugging against the anchored swastika stakes. The ocean beyond was a blur of gray streaked with white. The Schwabenland couldn't be seen because it was around the flank of the volcano. Hart was conscious of time draining away. Surely the Germans would realize he couldn't fly back in a storm?
"Can we take off in this wind, Owen?"
"Maybe. And maybe fly in it. Maybe even find our way back to the ship. But landing on the sea, with that scudding ice…"
Fritz shivered. They were cold, dangerously so.
"Should we wait it out in the plane?"
"If we have to. But the skin has no insulation and the fuselage will be freezing." Hart looked around.
"Where else then?"
The pilot pointed. "Inside the mountain, maybe. It's warmer there."
The sailor followed his finger. There was a dark opening in the snow like a lidded eye.
"I noticed that on my hike down and the snow hasn't covered it up. That means it might be an overhang or a cave. If the latter, it's better than the plane."
"And if not?"
"Climbing will keep you warm. Can you manage the pain?"
Fritz paused to take internal inventory. "Actually, I'm beginning to feel better. Maybe that piss of Greta's really works."
They slowly plowed toward the distant eye, breathing hard, their goal lost at times through blowing snow. The wind howled harder as they worked higher, gusts snapping the ends of their parkas. The cold stung their lungs and rasped their throats. Hart's feet and hands were growing numb and he knew the little sailor must be far worse. It hurt to live.
Then they reached a chest-high wall of lava rock, part of an outcrop on the volcano's snowy flank. There was a shelf on top and then the small cave. Owen lifted the weary sailor up onto the ledge and pushed him ahead.
The entry tunnel was tight, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees, but there was a living-room-sized chamber beyond that was floored with sand. They sprawled gratefully. The sound of the wind had abruptly dropped and the temperature had soared.
"I think we're going to make it," Owen said. "Do you want some food?"
The sailor looked at him wearily. "Like your canteen? Yes, book paste and paint thinner, please. I can't get enough of your cooking."
Hart's promised four-hour absence went by. Greta's six hours. Drexler's eight. Still no sign of the pilot. Night came and the Schwabenland uneasily maintained its rocking station at sea, the crew grumbling nervously as large bergs swept by and smaller floes clanked and skittered along the damaged hull. Snow coated the decks before finally stopping at a gauzy dawn. Greta was sleepless, her eyes red. The mood on the bridge was somber.
"It's time to consider our situation," said Schmidt. "We should either reenter the shelter of the harbor or consider going back north. With the season growing to a close the weather can only grow worse."
"Owen asked us to remain out here," Greta said.
There was silence.
"Well, I've said what I have to say and I'm not saying it again," Feder reminded.
Heiden drummed his fingers, looking out the bridge windows. "The entrance to the caldera is still stormy." They could all see the spray. "I don't want to risk the fate of the Bergen and hit a rock. Now that we're outside I prefer to stay outside until the weather calms."
"And how long do you propose to stay?" Schmidt asked. "The leak has gotten worse again."
"Slightly worse." The captain looked unhappy.
"There can't be any surprise at the pilot's absence," the doctor insisted. "We've all seen what that disease can do."
"We don't know that!" Greta protested.
"We know that every man who has ventured into that valley has failed to return."
Greta looked at the officers imploringly. Most shifted their gaze away. Drexler didn't.
"Listen," he said. "I've been thinking. Our problem is lack of information, not lack of will. We all want to do what's best for the American and the mountaineers but we've no word from any of them so we can't act. Let me try to rectify that."
"What do you propose?" said Heiden.
"Take the motor launch back into the caldera. That way we risk a boat, not the ship."
"You can't even swim!"
"Swimming is pointless in this cold water," he dismissed. "And I don't want it said I abandoned the American." He glanced at Greta. She cast her eyes down.
"Your plan?" asked Schmidt.
"I'll ask for volunteers, we'll go ashore, and climb up to the crater rim. No farther! Hart and Eckermann did it safely when we first arrived so we should be able to as well. I'll see if I can spot any sign of the men or the plane. If we do… we can plan from there."
"And if we don't?"
"Then the best thing is to leave." He heard Greta take a sharp breath. "I'm sorry, but we can't indefinitely endanger the many for the few. Our primary duty to Germany is to return and report our claims."
They waited.
"It's a reasonable course of action," Heiden told her. "Maybe he'll even fly back while Jurgen is scouting."
She nodded miserably.
"This trip will also let me accomplish another task," Drexler said. "I think we should blow up the Bergen."
"Why?" asked Feder.
"Two reasons. One, the hull could retain traces of the disease despite our cremation of the corpses. There's no reason to endanger future explorers. And second, its removal would eliminate any competing Norwegian claims to this island. With the bodies burned and the ship gone, no one will know the whalers ever got here. It could still make a splendid German base, once we understand the disease. The cached supplies mark our claim."
"You'd come back here?" Greta gasped.
"With proper expertise and equipment. In fact, if the Reich allows, I'll come next season. But first things first. Do I hear volunteers?"
Feder smiled grimly. "I'll go if it will speed our getting out of here."
"When am I going to learn not to follow your lead? Great God in heaven."
"It's just a tremor, Fritz. At this point, this is the fastest way out."
They were suspended in the cave like flies on a wall. Ironically, their present precarious situation had only been made possible because of Fritz's improving health. The remaining drug organism, food, and the warmth of the cave had done wonders in restoring the sailor's strength. Consequently, he'd been persuaded to help explore the cave while they waited for the storm to abate. Hart's pack still had the lantern and flashlight and candles he'd used on his trip with Greta and they wound down a steep tunnel toward the interior of the mountain. But just when Fritz believed they'd reached the point of necessary return, the pilot had instead become enormously excited. Far from turning back, the crazy American wanted to go on.
"It's the elevator shaft!" Hart had cried.
"The what?"
"Greta and I followed this downward to the lake where we found the drug that seems to be saving your life! We entered it halfway up, while this tunnel breaks into its top. The two cave entrances are connected!"
"Wonderful. By a pit so deep we can't even see the bottom."
Hart had shone his light around. "The chimney is hundreds of feet deep, but not bottomless. And look, it has ledges and handholds. Halfway down is the horizontal tunnel Greta and I entered before. This shaft can lead us back through the mountain to the caldera. While we're there I can even return to the lake and get some of the drug- now that we know it works."
"You want me to climb down there?"
"Only halfway. If the Germans have any sense they brought the Schwabenland back into the lagoon once they realized the seriousness of the storm. We'll walk out and meet them."
"And if they don't have any sense, which is my judgment of this entire expedition?"
"Then you wait by the spring while I climb back over the rim of the volcano to get the airplane. In the meantime you'll have more medicine."
"Why am I letting you talk me into climbing a sheer cliff?"
"Because that direction is all downhill." He clapped Fritz on the back. "Don't worry, we'll rope up."
"Ah. We can fall together."
Fritz actually did fine until the small volcanic earthquake came. Then the cave wall shuddered and a few loosened fragments of rock cut through the air past them, exploding into stony shrapnel somewhere far below. Now the sailor was trembling. "I don't like caves!"
"We're almost out of this one, Fritz." The pilot shone his flashlight. "See? There's the ledge we're making for. Much closer than trying to go back. The cave is unstable, but we won't be here long."
"Christ. I'm never getting off the ship again. I don't care what Pig-Head orders."
"You'll already be a hero. You won't have to."
Hart drove a final piton into the rock and threaded the rope through it, then led Fritz down its double length. On the sandy ledge where he and Greta had hesitated- it seemed like centuries ago- he reeled in the line. The pilot was cheerful. He'd be seeing her again soon.
The pair walked to the entrance of the crater's cave, blinking in the gray light of a new dawn. The storm was dying but wind still whistled up on the crater rim and spray pounded the caldera entrance. There was no sign of the Schwabenland, which was worrisome. But if Drexler was as patient as promised, it should still be waiting at sea. At least Hart hoped so. "I'll go quickly down to the lake to get you enough of the organic mats. If they still haven't returned by the time I get back I'll get the airplane. The storm should be completely over by then. Then I'll find the ship. Meanwhile, just get some sleep."
Fritz looked out tiredly, utterly spent. "You know, Owen, we're not the two most popular members of this cruise. Do you really think they'll wait?"
"Of course. Greta will make them wait."
Later that morning Jurgen Drexler and his volunteers sailed the frost-coated motor launch through the heaving swells of the caldera entrance, the open boat surprisingly stable as it surfed the breaking waves into the choppy lagoon. Except for the scattered crates of abandoned supplies onshore that formed a mournful monument to a seemingly thwarted mission, the crater was empty: Hart was deep in the heart of the mountain and Fritz was asleep. Drexler used his binoculars to scan the crater rim. No one waved or shouted.
The political liaison was put on shore with Feder to climb up the crater wall while the remaining volunteers motored to the Bergen to ready it with explosives. The two Germans hiked steadily to the top, the geographer panting hard, and came tentatively over the crest. Feder's urge to cringe from an imaginary assault of germs was dampened by a stiff wind that blew from their backs, sweeping the mysterious menace of the dry valley away from them. Even so, both wore a gauze mask, sticky on the inside and frosted on its surface.
The valley was desolate and deserted: as deserted as Drexler had secretly hoped. As the hours had ticked by on the ship, the idea that the annoying American might not be coming back had filled the political liaison with rising excitement. It would solve so many problems! Still, he hiked along the rim to make sure. He had to know, for both Greta and himself. After a quarter mile he found the radio that Fritz had hauled up from the valley bottom, snow-crusted and abandoned a hundred yards below the rim.
"I'm not going near it," Feder said.
"Then wait here. We must check." Drexler slid down the outer slope, sweating at even this tentative descent into the valley of death, but he made himself do it. A try revealed that the radio's batteries had died in the cold; he couldn't reach the ship. Otherwise there was no sign of Fritz, Hart, or the mountaineers. Drexler considered a moment, then climbed back and pointed along the rim.
"We hike on."
Feder unconsciously had backed a foot away from him, as if he might already be contaminated. "For God's sake, Jurgen, they're gone! Lost!"
"No. I want a view along the ridgeline of the valley."
Drexler's heart initially sank when they spied the flying boat. So, the pilot hadn't crashed. The Germans could see it tethered on the snow far below and studied it carefully for a sign of life. It was a quiet relief that they saw none. The plane was crusted with snow, its surroundings trackless. Hart had obviously left before the storm and not come back.
"Do you see anything?" Drexler asked, lowering his binoculars.
"Only an abandoned airplane. My God, wouldn't Hart have returned by now if he's still alive? He said four hours and it's been a day!"
The political liaison nodded, glad to have a witness. "Perhaps we should climb down and inspect," he offered carefully.
"No! The launch might leave us! Do you want us all to die, one by one, looking for each other? I'm going no nearer that pestilence than right here. It's time to go back!"
Drexler made a show of reluctance, looking out across the island with binoculars. Then, "You're right, Alfred. Even Hart advocated prudence." It was obvious, he told himself. The American had landed, descended into the valley, and died from the microbe or exposure. As much as he would like fresh tissue samples of the disease, it would be suicide to search for the bodies. It was over. His rival was dead.
He exhaled, realizing how tensely he had been holding his body. "So. We saw the plane abandoned and no sign of life. Agreed?"
"I told him not to come."
"We'd better return to the launch. They'll be wondering what happened to us."
"Finally. I'm freezing." When they turned the wind was bitter in their faces. Jurgen led the way back, brooding as he turned events over in his mind. The whole episode was a tragedy, yes. He was willing to admit that. But who could have foreseen that a simple scouting expedition would lead to so many deaths? And they'd learned valuable lessons to prepare them for return: his men hadn't died in vain. The disaster demonstrated the power of this strange new microbe, potentially an awesome new weapon!
He continued to muse as he and Feder picked their way down the slope. Atropos Island: the Fate that scheduled death, the Fate that was going to resurrect his career once he restored the cultures by returning next year. Too, by consigning Hart to some unknown end, Fate had resurrected his relationship with Greta. After reviewing the chain of events, his conscience was clear. Everyone had done the right thing as best they were able. Everyone.
As the pair neared the bottom of the crater, they saw the motor launch pulling away from the derelict whaler to meet them for the trip back to the Schwabenland. Suddenly, there was a flash of light and they abruptly halted their descent, watching the whaler's bridge explode. The demolition had begun! Then another explosion, and another. The whaler was being ripped apart, smoke and water spewing skyward. Drexler could feel the sound and pressure in his bones as the energy punched across the volcanic bowl. Then the column of smoke began to dissipate, black caldera water smoothing over the wreck site. The Germans in the boat below cheered.
Suddenly there was a new rumble and Drexler turned to the noise. The explosion had triggered a snow and rock avalanche on the crater wall, he saw, at a point right above Hart's damnable cave. Jurgen couldn't help grinning at the spectacle. A cloud of debris was sliding over the entrance in a great plume of dust, helping to erase bitter memory. The cavern of betrayal was history.
"My God, an awesome detonation," Feder breathed. "I'd no idea we had that much explosive aboard."
"As I told Hart, we Germans like to be thorough." Drexler watched the plume of dust dissipate in the wind. The cave entrance had disappeared. Yes.
Suddenly exhilarated, he began bounding down the slope toward the approaching boat as the geographer clumsily followed, the pair's shoes kicking up gouts of pumice dust.
It was time to look to the future, not to the past.
It was time to comfort Greta.
Fritz was jerked awake by a roar. He'd been sleeping in the cave and was disoriented by darkness; only after a second or two did his eyes swing toward the light of the cave's entrance as the source of the noise. There was a whole series of thuds outside and he staggered toward the cave mouth to see what was going on.
The whaler had erupted in a plume of spray and debris, he saw, fragments still raining down into the lagoon. Groggily, he realized the Schwabenland's motor launch was also in the harbor. For rescue! He lifted an arm to wave.
Then there was a deeper, nearer roar and the lava cave began to tremble. Rocks crashed across the tube entrance and then a sluice of dirt and snow began pouring down to blot out his view. Jesus Christ! Dust billowed in at him and he began to cough. What had the fucking Nazis done now?
The sailor began a stumbling run back into the tube to get away from the avalanche at the entrance, confused by this calamity. Suddenly there was a splintering crack and a huge slab from the ceiling thudded down behind him. Cave-in! The floor shuddered and the air quaked and as more pieces hinged down he was running madly, the noise growing… and then he was swatted down and time stopped. Blackness.
He woke to a hand shaking his shoulder. A voice was saying his name. It seemed a cruel thing to do. He felt not so much pain as leakage, his life force draining away. Why call him back?
"Fritz!"
It was Owen. Still alive? That was something…
"Fritz! What happened?"
The sailor spoke. Or tried to. It came as a croak. He was frustrated that he couldn't do better than a fucking croak. That he wouldn't get back to the ship to surprise Pig-Head.
"What?" The pilot bent closer.
Fritz managed a hoarse whisper. "Get back to her, Owen." He spoke in a swoon of pain. "Don't give up again."
And then the last of him drained away.
Sky. The ice-dotted ocean. As vast and brilliant as the cave had been close and dark. Now Hart was flying in its terrifying emptiness with a leaden cargo of sudden, devastating loss. It seemed he was utterly alone in the world. The cave destroyed, Fritz dead, the ship disappeared, Greta gone. He was too late. As he'd instructed, they'd sailed without him.
The pilot watched the fuel gauge measure the sinking of his hope. At the very end he planned to dive steeply into the sea; the crash would be quicker than frigid water. But he'd hunt until the last drop of petrol. He'd already come so far.
He'd been halfway to the lake when the cave-in occurred, the deeper mountain quaking ominously with a guttural rumble. What in hell? Pondering the mystery, he decided on a quick retreat. When he scrambled back to the chimney it was full of choking dust. Alarmed, he climbed up the shaft to a lava tube suddenly littered with broken rock. He found his little friend at the inner boundary of complete collapse, half buried and bleeding. Great God, why a cave-in then? The timing was monstrously bitter. And as Fritz slipped away Owen spent precious time grieving, giving way to self-pity at life's unfairness. He numbly gathered purpose only by remembering Greta, and then began the long, lonely climb toward the cave's back door, praying that it had not been sealed as well. One by one his lights had died; first the flashlight, then the lantern, and then the candles. He crawled the last hour in utter darkness, guided only by his knowledge that there was a way out and it lay somewhere at the top of this labyrinth of tunnels. Twice he hit dead ends, backtracked, and tried a different tunnel. Three times he almost gave up, lying in the dark with only the sound of his own breathing, drops of meltwater eventually prodding him to climb on. Yet finally he was on the snowy shelf again, dazzled by polar light, blood pounding, the cold an electric shock, taking in great shuddering breaths of frigid air. Groaning at the inexorable drainage of time. How long would they wait?
He'd eventually hiked wearily to the plane, dug it out, unleashed its wings, unwrapped the tarps, and laboriously warmed its engine. He was slow, clumsy, tired, and it took forever. Forever! Always he was conscious of the minutes and hours ticking by, the dying light, the diminishing chances. And yet when he finally brought the engine to a roar, skidding down the snowy plateau and lifting away at last from the cursed island, he still had hope. That he could catch them. That he could reach her.
The crater lagoon was empty, even of the Bergen. So was the sea.
He swung his head in anxious search until his neck ached and saw nothing. He flew over an ocean so lifeless that perhaps he had died, and now was in a cold heaven or endless hell.
He was so damned tired. His head was nodding. His body ached. His heart was a stone of sorrow. How could life be so briefly sweet, and then turn so quickly and frustratingly wrong again? Why had he left her at all?
God, he hated Antarctica.
And then from the corner of his eye he spotted a dark point amid the shards of icy white. As he flew closer he realized it was extruding a tendril of smoke.
He glanced down. The gas gauge was past empty.
And here was a ship.
Realization slowly penetrated. A ship! It was Greta! He'd made it!
Elmer's angel.
He wept as he put Boreas in a long, flat, gliding dive to stretch his fuel, leaning forward, pushing the Dornier by sheer will.
And then as he landed the plane on the sea a final time, clipping the wave tops, he finally saw the name on the hull he was chasing.
It was the Norwegian whaler, the Aurora Australis. Turning slowly toward him.