“And,” Kurt said, “you’ll be giving us guns. Rifles and spare clips for myself, Joe, the captain, and any other member of our crew who wants one.”

“Count me in,” Hayley said.

“And one for me,” the XO added.

Gregorovich raised an eyebrow. “You expect me to arm you? Here on this ship?”

“I do,” Kurt said. “And I’m not giving you a thing until you do.”

Gregorovich was fuming. His eyes narrowed, and he ground his teeth with a clenched jaw. He was trapped and he knew it. But he didn’t reject the offer outright. That meant he was at least considering it.

“A countryman of mine used the term peace through strength,” Kurt said, quoting Ronald Reagan. “Your nation and ours held nuclear weapons to each other’s head for half a century. It made for a stable — if somewhat tense — relationship. But no one ever pulled the trigger, so it obviously worked. I figure we can make it through a few days with a similar setup and a common goal.”

“This is madness,” Kirov said.

Kurt choked his words off and kept his eyes on Gregorovich.

“Do we have a deal?”

Gregorovich leaned against the bulkhead. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Kurt could almost hear the gears turning in his mind.

“I will give you one pistol,” he said finally. “And to a friend of your choosing, I will give exactly one rifle. You will get nothing more from me except death.”

“Until we achieve our common goal,” Kurt added.

Gregorovich did not comment on that statement. He only looked to Joe. “You. Arm yourself.”

Joe was allowed to pick up a rifle. He checked it quickly and pointed it at Gregorovich. Two of the commandos pointed their own weapons at him in response.

“See?” Kurt said. “Nice and stable.”

He released Kirov. He then handed the flare gun to Captain Winslow and grabbed one of the Makarov pistols from the deck. He pulled the slide back an inch to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber and then eased the hammer back down.

“You have your weapons,” Gregorovich said. “Now you will accompany me to the bridge and tell the navigator which direction to go.”

Kurt glanced at the others and received a smattering of I hope you know what you’re doing looks. He nodded confidently. “Lead on.”

The Russian stepped through the hatch. Kurt followed, with Kirov and all the others trailing behind.

It would take no more than a minute or so to reach the bridge, a time frame Kurt could expand by dragging his feet. But that was it, all the time he had in which to come up with a plan. A plan that would somehow point the freighter in the right direction and satisfy the Russians without simultaneously making himself and the rest of the NUMA survivors expendable once again.

Two minutes at most, Kurt thought. And the clock was ticking.

“We’re waiting, Mr. Austin.”

The words came from Gregorovich, but they might as well have been spoken by any of the commandos, or the Vietnamese crewmen who ran the freighter, or even from the NUMA survivors, all of whom were standing around looking at Kurt expectantly.

Twenty people, half of them with guns, crowded into a room more fit for eight or ten. If ever there was a recipe for disaster…

“Give us a heading,” Gregorovich added, raising a pistol of his own and setting the hammer.

Kurt kept his eyes forward. He stood over a surprisingly modern chart table. In reality, it was a giant touchscreen monitor laid flat. The screen was white with black demarcation lines. The display was almost identical to how the old charts used to look when lit up from below. The difference was, this screen could pan or zoom. It could indicate currents and wind and tides. It could bring up information in dozens of different ways.

None of which helped Kurt at the moment.

Right now, it was centered on the MV Rama’s location, with nothing but deep sea around it right out to the chart’s edge.

“Zoom out,” Kurt said.

The Vietnamese navigator glanced at Gregorovich, who nodded his approval.

The navigator touched the screen, tapping a magnifying glass icon with a little minus sign inside it. The screen adjusted its resolution and settled at the new level of magnification, displaying four hundred miles from corner to corner.

“Zoom out,” Kurt said.

This went on for several more rounds until the chart covered most of the southern hemisphere.

“If it’s not on the map now, we’re going to need more fuel,” Gregorovich said.

His men laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.

“Zoom in twice,” Kurt said.

This time, the map refocused with Perth and the southwestern edge of Australia in the top right corner. Along the bottom of the screen, the jagged edge of the Antarctic coast could be seen. At the far left, the tip of Madagascar poked into the picture.

Kurt stared at the very center of the map, locking his eyes on the dot that marked the MV Rama. He tried to see with his peripheral vision, not willing to even glance in the slightest in any direction lest he give away what he was looking for. His mind was racing. There had to be a way.

He knew where the ship needed to go, but how could he get the Rama pointed toward the target without letting the Russians know the location?

Gregorovich stepped closer, he pressed the cold muzzle of the gun to the back of Kurt’s head. “I won’t ask you again,” he said.

The answer came to Kurt in a flash, a memory derived from years of studying warfare at sea. They would zigzag, changing course almost randomly every few hours like the allied convoys dodging the U-boats during World War Two.

Such a tack had two benefits. First, it would keep the Russians guessing and therefore keep Kurt and the NUMA crew alive. And, second, if anyone happened to be watching, they might notice the containership lost at the bottom of the world and question the crazy path she was taking.

“Helmsman,” Kurt said, still keeping his eyes locked on the center of the map, “would you please set the ship on a heading of 195 degrees true.”

Gregorovich lowered his pistol and stepped back. All eyes looked at the map. The helmsman plugged in the coordinates. A line appeared on the chart. It led almost due south, with a slight westerly lean. It ran aground at the tip of a jagged little peninsula jutting out from Antarctica.

“So Thero’s station is there?” Kirov asked, bluntly. “In Antarctica?”

Kurt said nothing. He kept his eyes still, calculating the ship’s speed.

The Rama began to turn, the first of Kurt’s zigs. He checked his watch. Four hours, he told himself. In four hours, he would give them a new heading.

“Answer me,” Kirov demanded, grabbing Kurt.

“Wait,” Gregorovich shouted. “We are on our way. I’m assuming if we get off course somehow, our polestar, Mr. Austin, will reroute us.”

Clearly, he saw what Kurt was doing. For some reason, he seemed okay with it. That thought gained strength when Gregorovich handed another weapon to Captain Winslow.

“Détente,” he said, explaining. Then he snapped his fingers at one of the Vietnamese crewmen. “Show them to their quarters. Mr. Austin and I are going to share a drink.”

The situation had worked out better than Kurt might have hoped. They’d bought some time, and they now had two rifles plus his pistol. They just might survive until morning.

Dirk Pitt found himself standing in the mist on a low rise surrounded by tall pines and cedars. He and Vice President Sandecker had hitched a ride on a B-1 bomber making a transcontinental trip. Traveling at Mach 2, they’d arrived at Travis Air Force Base in Northern California nearly a full hour before they’d taken off, at least according to the local clock anyway.