Free Antarctica by Peter Lerangis

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    “Pull it to port!” Jack shouted. “To port!”
    The ship suddenly jumped.
    A long, tearing sound ran from bow to stern.
    The dogs leaped back, barking viciously.
    “We’re stove in!” Sanders shouted.
    Jack felt the water gushing into the boat at his feet.

Part Four
Separation

13
Barth
    February 5, 1910
    “W ALK! M OVE YOUR LEGS!” Captain Barth tried to lift Hayes out of the water, but the man must have weighed 250.
    “I — I — c-c —”
    “Come on, Hayes, I was counting on you to help me!”
    “C — co — cold —”
    Barth pivoted around, knelt, dug his shoulder into Hayes’s midsection, and stood. Hayes was draped over him like a sack of cornmeal.
    Speed was crucial. Humans weren’t supposed to survive in water like this for longer than ten minutes, fifteen at most. Hayes had been in for fifteen, Nesbit longer. Of the three dogs, Yiorgos had perished in the water. Socrates and Demosthenes had made the swim to the Raina. And they were both near death.
    Barth was sure he’d lose all of the Samuel Breen crew. But they were sailors of the old school, scrappy and indestructible. Siegal and Petard had managed to climb on board the Raina; Bailey, Brillman, and Stimson had grabbed onto her gunwale and hung on as they sailed to this godforsaken floe. The others — Hayes and Nesbit — had swum all the way.
    Or tried to. Hayes had made it to within twenty feet before he seized up. Nesbit was still in the water.
    Robert ran to the water. “I’ll get ’im, Captain.”
    “N-n-no, all h-hands are needed in the infirm-m-mary.” Barth shook uncontrollably as he deposited Hayes carefully on the tarp. “Hayes is alm-most gone, M-M-Montfort. You’ve got a j-j-job cut out for you.”
    “Captain … ?” Robert said.
    Barth ran back to the edge of the floe. It was insane to risk Robert on this.
    Nesbit was out maybe fifty yards. He was a good swimmer. But he wasn’t even trying.
    Barth jumped into the water. Contact felt like a gunshot. Fishing Hayes out of the water hadn’t prepared him for total immersion.
    He faded in and out of consciousness, swimming hard. He had no feeling below the waist and could only hope his arm motions would jump-start his system. When the arms started to spasm, he prayed he was kicking.
    “Nes … bit!”
    The blue in Nesbit’s eyes seemed to have run out, leaving only white.
    And then he was under.
    Barth dived. The water was clear but dark. Nesbit was a black blur.
    He reached desperately and grabbed hold of something. Fabric.
    He pulled and the black blob came with him. He thrust himself back to the surface and lifted Nesbit’s head above water.
    Nesbit convulsed. A thick stream of water and saliva spewed from his mouth.
    The floe seemed miles away. Lombardo and Robert were standing at the edge, shouting.
    How far was it, really? Fifty yards was a child’s distance. He’d been trained to pull a flailing victim four times as far.
    Forty yards.
    Nesbit was heavy. Deadweight. Dead weight. Live weight. He was alive. He couldn’t die. Not on Barth’s watch.
    Thirty.
    This was all his watch, wasn’t it? This was his expedition — number 137 for Elias Barth, United States Navy captain, retired. At large. For hire. No commitments. No family.
    Only friends.
    Friends were those in whose company you thrived. To whom you dreaded bidding farewell.
    Twenty.
    The sea was his friend. The Mystery .
    Nesbit.
    These men.
    The black ice.
    Ten.
    Farewell.

14
Colin
    February 5, 1910
    “N ICE VACATION SPOT,” K ENNEDY said.
    Ruskey threw open his arms. “I name this paradise Elysium!”
    “That’s where the ancient Greeks went after they died,” Philip remarked. “Their idea of heaven.”
    “I feel sorry for them,” Flummerfelt said.
    Dismal was too kind a word to describe this place. The shore was a patch of rocks, salt-washed and slickened with guano and seal excrement. The wind shrieked from all directions, a downdraft from the ice cliff that encircled them like a