William Dietrich - Ice Reich

"Quite the contrary," Hart said grimly. He paused, wondering how much he should say. Finally, he decided he had nothing to lose by being frank. "Captain, there's a famous proverb about a peasant who angers a great king, sufficient to have the king order his death. Just as he's about to lose his neck, the peasant yells out to the sovereign, 'Wait, if you give me an additional year to live, I'll teach your horse to talk.' The king thinks it over and, deciding he has nothing to lose, grants the temporary reprieve. Afterward, a friend of the peasant approaches him and asks why he's struck a bargain he obviously can't deliver on. The peasant replies: 'A lot can happen in a year. I could die. The king could die. Even better, the king's horse could teach himself to talk.' "

Freiwald smiled at the punch line. "You're amusing, Hart. Amusing and, I think, very much a wild card in this whole thing. You make me nervous."

"I guess I have to hone my relationship skills."

Freiwald shifted slightly to put his back to the wind. "This drug everyone keeps referring to- tell me about it."

"A drug to control a new plague. The worst disease you've ever seen. Jurgen Drexler wants to unleash it on the world. And he needs your help to do it."

"And you think this is wrong."

"I think it's evil."

"To obtain an antibiotic?"

"A cure is the only safe way to unleash the disease. Surely you've figured that out by now."

"Jurgen says there's more to his plan."

"Has he told you what it is?"

"No."

"Nor me. Captain, you mustn't help him with this."

Freiwald looked out at the icebergs drifting across the sea. "Have you ever been to Hamburg, Hart?"

"Yes. The earlier expedition left from Hamburg."

"Have you ever seen a firestorm? Its effect?"

He swallowed. "No."

"The British caused a firestorm in Hamburg. A city burning so hot that it sucks oxygen toward its center like a whirlpool. Winds so powerful they can sweep up little children. Did you know that in one night more people died in Hamburg than in your American battle of Gettysburg? Not soldiers! Women. Children. Old people."

"I saw the London Blitz, Captain. You're describing modern war."

"Exactly. And that's why Jurgen Drexler is no monster. He's simply a modern man. A modern warrior. Religion has been replaced with ideology. The centurions of morality are gone, the walls of order breached. We live in a barbaric age."

"Captain, if you follow Drexler to the bitter end I swear he'll kill you. His cause is disaster. Don't risk death for this man."

"I don't risk death for this man, whose mind and character I find dubious at best. I don't risk death even for our Fuhrer. But I do risk death for the Fatherland. I do risk it to save Germany. And I don't fear death. Do you know why?"

"No. Why?"

"Because I've already died, and the man you see standing before you is a ghost. You see, my family was in Hamburg that night, and they were roasted in that firestorm, and all the good in me died with them." He nodded. "So you will help us, Hart, because in the modern world terror must be met with terror."

"Somewhere it has to end, Captain."

"And Jurgen Drexler promises he can end it. So. Now you'll go below so Jacob can lock you to your bunk again."

Atropos Island loomed on the horizon like a thunderous cloud, towering and shadowy. The white of its glaciers evaporated into mist that billowed to form fantastic canyons of creamy vapor, the confection topped by the darker syrup of a volcanic plume from the second peak. The increase in eruptive activity did not appear to be threatening enough to prevent their reentering the caldera anchorage, but the drift of ash added to the unease of the German soldiers and sailors on deck. As they approached the island the sea was a flat calm, the submarine threading slowly through dark water between rafts of pack ice. The temperature was below freezing and the conning tower was frosted. The sky overhead was a patchwork: an occasional squall would send a brief snow flurry across the boat, followed a few minutes later by pale polar sun. As they rounded the flank of the island some of the flakes were grayer and grittier. Volcanic ash, the sailors were told. They held up their mittens in wonder.

Even Hart was allowed to come up on deck. He watched the tail of volcanic smoke with disquiet, wondering what this change meant for descending underground. And yet when the U-4501 nosed through the caldera entrance the harbor seemed not to have changed at all in six years. There was still the same pinto pattern of pumice and snow, still the absence of any bird or animal life, still the lonely beaches that steamed in the cold. Even the crates of supplies left by the Schwabenland remained undisturbed. He shivered, but not from the temperature. The familiarity of it after so many years seemed chilling. The bodies of the mountaineers, he assumed, still lay where they fell, stained a coffee color and mummified by the dry freeze of time.

Freiwald anchored not far from the underwater wreck of the Bergen, and the U-boat men on deck began assembly of a prefabricated motor launch. Antarctic clothing was dragged out of storage and ropes, buckets, lanterns, lamps, and packs were readied. Despite the smoking volcano, there was an air of excitement aboard now that they'd survived the attack and reached Antarctica. Here would be a tale to tell one's grandchildren about.

Hart was issued a parka, boots, a backpack, lights, food, and climbing gear that included an ice ax. He joined five other SS men on the foredeck. Last to emerge were Jurgen and Greta. It was the first time the pilot had seen her since the depth charge attack and she granted him a brief, reassuring smile but didn't attempt to speak. She was solemn as she looked at the island. Owen was relieved that her face was unmarked.

Drexler seemed subdued but determined. "Here's where you earn your keep, Hart," he growled, keeping between the pilot and Greta. "I could blast and dig my way into the mountain the old way but it would take time and we have no timbers to shore up the ceiling. The alternative you found will prove more expedient, I hope."

"It might be a tight squeeze for some of your gorillas, Jurgen. Those boys afraid of the dark?"

The storm troopers looked scornfully at the pilot.

"My men aren't afraid of anything but failure. Which is the only thing you should fear as well. We'll get what we came for one way or another. But if you and my wife assist as promised, things will be easier for everyone."

Hart looked evenly at the soldiers. "Looking forward to their company. Especially Hans there, the one with the big boot."

The yellow-haired giant grinned at him.

They clambered into the launch, motored ashore, and the party shouldered their packs. The pilot led off, switchbacking up the slope of the crater. Soon they were sweating in the cold, the submarine shrinking in the lagoon below. As they neared the rim Hart noticed the launch had returned to the submarine and another party was boarding. The pilot thought he recognized among them the cadaverous, hunched figure of Schmidt. Where was he going?

They moved on up to the crest and out of sight of the submarine, Drexler bringing up the rear with Greta. It was clear he wasn't anxious for the American to talk to her, but the German maintained his own stiff distance from her as well. Whatever their exchange after the depth charge attack, it hadn't been a friendly one. Owen decided to be patient. Despite the situation his spirits had revived somewhat with his escape from the confines of the U-4501. Even the dour SS men brightened. The air was sharp and cold and exquisitely clean. The unaccustomed walking brought an almost welcome tightness to their muscles. Hart paused frequently. "Drink lots of water," he kept admonishing. "It's arid here, despite the snow."