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, Jürgen, 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, Jürgen. 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, Jürgen. 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.