Before he could launch, there was another bang and then an explosion.
The cockpit of the Passat disintegrated, pieces of metal skittering across the stern deck of the German ship. Hart was hit with a spatter of blood. Then the whaler was swerving steeply away, leaning, a line drawn from the shattered airplane cockpit to the Norwegian's bow.
"Jesus!" The flying boat had been hit with the whaler's explosive-tipped harpoon. Now the flanges of its head were buried in the remains of the cockpit, pulling at the Dornier. Reinhard Kauffman was dead, his remains hurled at Hart and the stunned sailors. The mountaineers inside were shouting as the plane began to tip. A soldier tumbled from its belly, then another.
The Passat tore free of its catapult, one wing dipping over the Schwabenland's side. It caught for a moment, leaned precariously, and then lurched. The harpoon line snapped but the pressure had been enough. The airplane toppled into the sea with a crash.
"Men overboard!" The cry went up around the ship.
Sailors ran to fling life rings at the bobbing airplane. The Schwabenland's engines slowed and the ship began a tight turn. The two remaining mountaineers popped up in the ocean next to their airplane and swam onto its wing.
"Lifeboat! Man the lifeboat!" The craft began to be lowered. The shattered seaplane was slowly filling, the mountaineers sinking with it, the wing shining blue as it was enveloped by cold water. The lifeboat hit the water with a splash and reached the mountaineers just as the airplane sunk out from under them, still looking as if it was trying to fly as it slid into the deep. The soldiers were hauled aboard half dead from the shock of the water, ice forming on their clothes.
Then with a whoosh and cloud of white steam, a crewman released the air pressure on the port catapult. Its usefulness was over.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Aurora Australis was fleeing and Hart assumed the Germans would let it go. Drexler came running back to the stern after the Norwegian harpooning, wild with frustration. He stopped and stared in disbelief at the chaos.
"What happened?"
"They speared us," one of the sailors said.
Drexler looked at the red-stained stern of the retreating whaler. "Who was hurt?"
"Two of the soldiers almost drowned. Reinhard is dead." The sailor's voice was wooden, numbed by shock.
Drexler's eyes flitted around nervously. "What about the other plane?"
No one answered him.
"Who could fly the other plane?"
Again, no answer. His gaze jerked around, then settled on Hart.
The pilot stared menacingly back at him. It was a look that spoke volumes. There would be no more flying today.
"That murdering bastard," Drexler muttered. Then he turned and ran back toward the bridge.
As he watched the German leave, Hart realized he was trembling from reaction. Reinhard Kauffman had unwittingly saved his life by ordering him out of the plane. Yet, what kind of destiny did Hart confront now, with Drexler having created an international incident that was certain to overshadow whatever the expedition had accomplished?
From the ship's motion in the rising swells, the pilot could tell they were picking up speed again. The added wind was cold. He stood up to see. The stern was temporarily deserted but he noticed a commotion toward the bow. The SS troops were piling loose crates and gear to form a barricade and laying weapons behind it. Hart's chill increased. He stiffly climbed up on the catapult to get a better view ahead. They were steaming south at full speed into an archipelago of icebergs, still chasing the Aurora Australis, its stern a taunting lure. The horizon was shrinking as the wind grew. Feder's storm was coming.
Enough is enough. Hart began walking back to the bridge. Twice he saw bullet holes. Brass shell casings rolled and tinkled on the canting deck like strewn toys. Madness!
The bridge was a welcome pocket of heat but Drexler swung on him immediately.
"I told you to stay away!"
Hart ignored him, turning to Heiden. "Captain, as an expedition member with experience in Antarctic waters, I must protest our speed and course. The ice and weather make it entirely unsafe."
"Hart, I want you below!"
"Captain?"
Heiden was silent.
"Captain, you know I'm right. You've been in the Arctic. Or ask Feder. This is risky."
The gap between the two ships was slowly narrowing. A berg the size of a city block slid by on the port side, its underwater bulk like a swollen blue cheese.
"We're pursuing a criminal, Hart," Drexler said. "A ship which killed one of our company. Destroyed one of our planes."
"Captain Heiden, please."
Heiden finally swiveled in his chair to address the pilot. "We can't end it like this. Or we're finished anyway."
"That's better than sinking!"
"No it isn't." Heiden was resigned. "Things have gone too far, Hart. We'll close in half an hour."
"But what are we going to do if we catch them?"
"I don't know." He nodded toward Drexler.
The political liaison turned away, fixing his gaze on the stern of the whaling ship. An ice floe banged against the hull, ringing it like a bell.
"Barometer is still dropping," Feder said worriedly into the hush. "It's growing dark."
Hart glanced around. The Germans avoided his gaze. Ahead, the Aurora Australis was disappearing into a cold fog. Flakes of snow drifted down.
Drexler bent to the intercom. "I need more speed!"
"Jürgen, we're not going to be able to see," Feder warned.
The liaison nodded. "Two men out on the wings, listening for surf on the ice."
Heiden issued the order.
Hart noticed that the helmsman was sweating. "This is crazy," the pilot insisted.
No one answered. The atmosphere was one of controlled fury. Instead of losing his grip on the group, Drexler had strengthened it. Defeated, Hart clomped down the stairs toward the galley, feeling impotent.
Greta was there, a mug of tea in front of her, staring at the table. Hart hesitated a moment, then got some coffee and slumped into a chair across from her. The biologist's hair hung around her face like a curtain and her hands were splayed on the surface as if she were examining them for the first time.
Slowly she looked up. Her eyes were moist. Whatever had divided the pair was momentarily forgotten. "I didn't think our sampling would lead to that," she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "I didn't think men would go that far."
Hart let her words hang in the air. Then he said: "This voyage was always about politics, not science, wasn't it?"
She looked at him fiercely. "It was about both. You can't separate so neatly— it's naive to think you can. Everything we humans do is confused by human relationships. That's what made me so angry on the beach— that you recognized that element in regards to my own presence aboard. Of course Jürgen made a difference. Of course he's a reason I'm here, me instead of any of a hundred other biologists. That doesn't mean I know what to feel, how to behave, what standard I can use to judge myself. What role I've really played."
Hart inwardly winced. She was blaming herself. "Greta, you're not responsible for Jürgen Drexler. Or Sigvald Jansen."