The northern end of Grant land rapidly assumed definite proportions while Tim completed his log of their flight over the heart of the Arctic.
There was more open water below them now and the lines on Ralph’s face deepened, for a forced landing would mean sure disaster. Grant land slipped away beneath them as they pushed steadily eastward while far to the south the mountains of Greenland were rearing their white-crested heads.
Tim went back in the cabin to check up on their gasoline supply, for they were still nearly 600 miles from Spitzbergen. He had just completed testing the tanks when a shout from Ralph made him hurry back to the pilot. There was no need for words. Far ahead, probably 300 miles away, another storm was brewing.
Tim debated only a moment before he turned to his pilot.
“It’s up to you, Ralph,” he yelled in his companion’s ear. “We can buck the storm or turn back and land at Grant land. Plenty of game there to keep us alive and if we can’t get the plane off the ice again, we can walk to the station of the Northwest Mounted Police at Bache peninsula.”
“I’m not going to do any walking in this temperature,” shouted Ralph. “It’s Spitzbergen or curtains for me,” and he turned back to his controls.
The next two hours were an agony of suspense for Tim and Ralph. Ahead of them the storm clouds loomed higher and higher and half an hour before they reached the storm area, the wind was teasing their plane. But there was no turning around now; only straight ahead for their gas was too low to risk a flight back to Grant land.
Into the heart of the storm they flew; both white faced and tense as they faced the final ordeal of their great flight. The gale tossed their plane through the clouds and driving snow beat on the wings and against the windows of the cabin. Both men were watching the clock on the instrument board, with Tim making anxious trips to the gas tanks. Their fuel supply was running dangerously low.
If only the storm would abate so they could get their bearings. The same prayer was in the minds of both and whether it was an answer or flyer’s luck, the clouds lightened a few minutes later and during a lull in the storm, Ralph sent the plane rocketing downward.
At the 1,000 foot level he checked their descent and through the now thinly drifting snow they could discern a savage, broken line of cliffs rearing their heads above the ice pack. Further back were the outlines of a mountain range.