William Dietrich - Ice Reich

She moved decisively. A sampling of the drug sludge went into a bottle slipped into her pocket. Then she lifted the heavy canister it came from and began pouring the remainder into their drain pipe. The unprocessed organism would go into the U-boat's waste system and overboard. It glugged with glacial slowness but at last emptied. She let the canister drop to the deck and picked up another. She was sweating in her heavy outdoor gear.

There was a click and a bump as the hatch opened again. She started, but kept pouring. Probably Jacob, the animal tender, and she could outbluff any sailor. It would be enough to point to the disease. Get out, go away! It's dangerous down here!

Boots thumped onto the deck. She prepared to turn suddenly in irritation.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She jumped. It was Schmidt! She looked at him in guilty surprise as he watched her pour. He seemed confused and haggard.

"Max! I thought you were asleep."

"Having coffee." His expression began to narrow. "Sleep has tended to elude me of late, and a chance mention by the watch of your being down here got me curious." His look became grim. "I shudder to think what might have happened had I not decided to investigate. Put that damn container down. Now."

Reluctantly, she did so. "I only- "

"Only what? Only wanted to destroy everything we worked for. Back away from that drain pipe, Frau Biologist. Thank God more is coming from the cave." He paused, considering her clothes, her midnight appearance. "Or is it? Are you finally ahead of us, Greta? Do you finally know something I don't?"

"That would be difficult, Max, given that you know everything." Her expression was one of intense hatred. Also, of triumph.

"Bitch!" His hand cracked across her face and she went flying against the remaining algal containers, knocking several over. The cap snapped off one and its contents began sloshing across the metal deck grating, draining into the bilge. She shook her head dumbly. The blow was so hard she was dazed, her vision blurred.

"Violence seems to be your forte, Max," she said, glancing sideways at the still-full algal containers. Suddenly, she turned and grabbed for the bottles, getting a cap off one before Schmidt was on top of her.

"Get your hands off that!" He seized her by the hair and hauled her backward, trying to strike her with the other fist. His clumsy blows were blocked by the arm she lifted to ward off his attack. He was taller but old and not particularly strong. She twisted and kicked, making him wince. Then they grappled, Greta punching and biting and scratching for her life. He managed to get behind her with an arm around her windpipe and began choking. They stumbled, locked in a pained dance, her voice cut off and Schmidt wheezing as he desperately tried to master a woman thirty years younger than himself. She realized she was beginning to black out and groped wildly with a free hand, looking for a weapon. Her fingers skittered on a glass cylinder, rejected it, then seized it again. Yes! One of his damned hypodermics!

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

Jurgen 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, Jurgen 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?"