"I'm happy to announce my ear infection is cured."

They had a celebration dinner that night and after two more days of relaxation started home. Now their only concern was getting out of Russia. While waiting at the airport in Mineral Vody they met an interesting British engineer who had been living for several years in Russia helping install western technology in Russian factories.

"It's been terrible," he said. "No flights out of Moscow and thousands stranded. I haven't heard any news for a few days, but I doubt it has improved."

"You won't hear the end of this," Luanne said to Frank.

Eight hours later they arrived in Moscow, and there was the affable Monastersky, attentively waiting to take them to their hotel.

"Mikail, we understand there is a serious problem with the airline boycott."

"Problem? Who told you this?"

"An Englishman we met in Mineral Vody."

"Problem? Oh, yes. He is right. Big problem. No more flights now, maybe never." Monastersky took his time to light a cigarette, letting the information sink in. Then he said, "You spend rest of your life in Soviet Union!"

The women went ashen, and Frank and d.i.c.k felt their stomachs tighten. Then Monastersky gave them a big stainless steel smile and said, "Good joke, huh?"

Actually the boycott was still in full swing, but there were a few flights out to less-frequented destinations, and Monastersky as usual had taken care of everything, booking the necessary connections. Jennings left via Helsinki, Morgan was out to India by way of Tashkent, and the rest made a connection through Vienna.

Five expeditions down and two to go.

Just as Frank and d.i.c.k had decided to combine Kilimanjaro and Elbrus in one trip, Pat Morrow had also made a similar plan, only in reverse. In July of 1983 he had climbed Elbrus and then had traveled directly to Kilimanjaro, where, he learned later, he missed Frank and d.i.c.k by only a few days.

After strolling to the top of Kilimanjaro, he returned home by way of Australia and was on the summit of Kosciusko about the time Frank and d.i.c.k were beginning their climb up Elbrus.

All he had left was Vinson in Antarctica. He wasn't sure how he was going to get there, but by this time he had seen an article in Fortune Fortune magazine describing Frank and d.i.c.k's Seven Summits odyssey, and he intended to call them as soon as he got back and chat with them about how magazine describing Frank and d.i.c.k's Seven Summits odyssey, and he intended to call them as soon as he got back and chat with them about how they they were planning on getting there. were planning on getting there.

He knew enough about Antarctica to know it wasn't going to be easy. But he also felt that with enough work, enough perseverance, enough creative thinking, and enough luck, he could figure out how to do it. After all, he was too close to realizing his dream to give the effort anything less.

Pat Morrow had six summits down, and one to go.

12.

THE ICE DESERT.

"You've got a call from a mountain climber named Pat Morrow," Frank's secretary said over the intercom. "He says he is also trying to climb the seven summits, and would like to talk to you."

It was mid-September, about a week after Frank had returned from Russia, and he was working in the office Warner's had given him while he continued his position as consultant.

"What's he want to talk about?"

"He says he has now climbed six of the seven peaks, including Everest."

"What?"

"He says the only thing he has left is to figure a way to get to Antarctica." "Put him on."

Morrow introduced himself and explained to Frank how he had come up with the idea of climbing the seven summits, and how he had now done all of them but Vinson.

"I've seen the Fortune Fortune article about you and d.i.c.k and I wondered if I might ask how you two are planning to get to Antarctica?" article about you and d.i.c.k and I wondered if I might ask how you two are planning to get to Antarctica?"

"Do you have $200,000?" Frank asked.

"No."

"Well, that's what it takes."

Frank then told Morrow about the Tri-Turbo, and all the difficulties he had overcome in chartering it. Morrow thanked him for the information and for his time, and wished him good luck climbing Vinson. When the conversation was finished, Frank called d.i.c.k.

"He sounds like a very nice guy," Frank said, "but he didn't have the money to charter the plane, and who knows if he can come up with it. One thing's for sure, he won't be able to charter it this year, since we've already got it, and even if he does figure out a way to come up with the money, he wouldn't be able to make the attempl on Vinson until next year, and that would be after we have another shot at Everest. Speaking of which, heard anything from Katmandu?"

"I just talked to Yogendra yesterday," d.i.c.k said. "He says he's been in contact with the Indian team which has an Everest permit on the South Col route for next spring. The Indian Amba.s.sador to Nepal is a good friend of Yogendra's boss-the Inspector General of Police-and he has approached the Amba.s.sador about our being able to join their expedition. Seems like the Amba.s.sador is acting as a sponsor for this climb, so we should have a good chance."

Frank was ecstatic. That evening he once again broached with Luanne the subject of going back to Everest, and as had been the case on that plane ride back from Nepal, she once again said very little. A couple of days later, though, she was ready to speak her mind.

"Frank," she said, "I want to have a meeting with you."

Frank was surprised. In their twenty-seven years of marriage they had had hundreds of discussions, but they had never had a "meeting."

"Sounds serious," he said.

"It is."

They went upstairs to Luanne's dressing room, where they knew they would not be disturbed.

"I've talked it over with the boys," she said, "and they suppoii me. I've also talked to your mother. Frank, I'm not saying you caul go. I'd never do that, never say no to something you want to do. But we did did have a deal, and I've made a decision. If you go back to Everest again, and are lucky enough to get home alive, I won't Inhere." have a deal, and I've made a decision. If you go back to Everest again, and are lucky enough to get home alive, I won't Inhere."

Frank sat with his hands clasped, arms on his knees, staring down.

"You mean it, don't you?"

Yes.

They were silent, then she said, "Frank, the boys and I understand how much you want this. Kevin and Briant, they like to achieve things, too; they like to excel; they understand. But you don't know how hard it's been on us, darling. I've tried to have faith, to convince myself nothing is going to happen to you. But that doesn't work all the time. Oh, in a way it's not as hard now as it was that first year. But that's just because now I'm numb. I guess if I've learned anything from this it's just how durable human beings are, how they learn to accommodate pain."

Learning to accommodate pain had been a new experience for Luanne, and one that had changed her in subtle ways she didn't think Frank was aware of. She had just told him the first year had been the hardest, but she hadn't told him that the reason it was hardest was because she couldn't come to grips with the possibility that he might die. She hadn't told him, either, that by the second year, even before she fully realized she was doing it, she had begun to account for the possible event of his death. She had his power of attorney, and she began to make decisions about family financial matters. She took over the job of paying bills, besides running the household. She began to imagine how she would deal with the boys in the years to come if there was no one else to help counsel them.

She realized she was changing, and not necessarily for the better-that depended on how you saw things-for she was no longer just the graceful angel. Those days were forever behind her, and she found herself gaining a certain firmness. She realized, for the first time in her life, she could be as strong as she needed to be.

She realized, too, there was an irony to it, that it had taken the Seven Summits to give her the strength and confidence to tell Frank that she would leave him if he were to continue the Seven Summits.

Frank continued to sit arms on knees, considering what Luanne had just said. He knew as soon as she had spoken her ultimatum there was really no choice. Alongside his wife and two sons-everything he had worked for and valued all his life-the chance to go back to Everest had no comparison. Furthermore, he knew she was more than justified in her position. She had been patient the first time he went to Everest, and she had been tolerant the second time, especially in light of Marty's death when there was no longer any way lo mask the danger of the undertaking.

He was of course deeply disappointed he wouldn't be able to return with d.i.c.k, that he would no longer be able to hold the dream, no matter how remote the real possibility, of making the Seven Summits himself. But Frank was not a man to feel sorry for himself. He accepted Luanne's judgment, he made the obvious decision, and in the next breath he told himself the Seven Summits had already been such a resounding success he could in no way be disappointed. Besides, he still had the most adventurous of the seven climbs yet to do.

"Well, it's pretty clear what to do, then," Frank said. Luanne was silent.

"It's clear I'll just have to be content with six summits instead of seven."

d.i.c.k was naturally disappointed Frank wouldn't be able to return to Everest, but it was clear to both of them that d.i.c.k shouldn't hesitate a moment to continue plans even without Frank.

"But I'm going to feel guilty as heck going back without you," d.i.c.k said.

"Nonsense," Frank replied. "You've always had the best chance at it anyway, and I would probably only hold you back. Besides, it's not like we're never going to climb with each other again. We've still got Antarctica and Kosciusko."

And on the subject of Antarctica, things were looking good, too; for the first time in two years plans were on track. So much so, in fact, that with a fat six weeks before they were to depart Frank found himself, for the first time in years, with what could reasonably be called free time.

Not a great deal of free time-he still had his consultant job at Warner's, and there were the day-to-day ch.o.r.es to attend to preparing Antarctica-but compared to the hectic pace he had been keeping, it was the first time since he had started the Seven Summits he had an occasional moment to sit back, take a deep breath, and think about things.

And not surprisingly, the thing he thought about most was what he was going to do with the rest of his life after the Seven Summits was over in December, especially now that he wouldn't be going back to Everest. Up to then, Frank had done a good job forcing himself not not to think about the future. When he had quit his job as president of Warner's he had made a pact with himself not to dwell on it because he knew there would be no better way to spoil the joy of his adventure than to be standing on the tops of the peaks fretting about what he might do when the climbs were over. There had been occasional lapses, of course, but all in all, the demands of planning for the Seven Summits had pre-empted any time he might have otherwise spent brooding. to think about the future. When he had quit his job as president of Warner's he had made a pact with himself not to dwell on it because he knew there would be no better way to spoil the joy of his adventure than to be standing on the tops of the peaks fretting about what he might do when the climbs were over. There had been occasional lapses, of course, but all in all, the demands of planning for the Seven Summits had pre-empted any time he might have otherwise spent brooding.

Now, though, he began to wonder. It wasn't a stress-producing worry that kept him up nights, or even a nervous preoccupation, but more a conscious consideration of the possibilities.

The easy way out would be to keep the consulting job with Warner's. It would last several more years, if he wanted it, but it wasn't a clearly defined position and, moreover, having left as president there was a certain awkwardness in continuing as consultant. He considered public service work. In some ways it seemed a natural, considering his interest in politics, but he knew it would also mean probable relocation to Washington, and a readjustment learning to work with special-interest groups and bureaucracies, both less responsive than the kind of people he was used to in the business world. He could, perhaps, return to business, to the entertainment industry (in something more than his present consulting job), but that might not be easy. When you have been president of one of the biggest film studios in Hollywood you don't exactly scan the want ads for a job.

"Don't worry," a good friend of Frank's, who had been in a similar position, told him. "When you're ready to work again, you won't believe what will come in over the transom."

Frank tried to take his friend's advice to heart and again push his preoccupation out of his mind until the climbs were over. His friend was probably right. Things would come up he couldn't even imagine now. So he might as well take advantage of these few weeks before they were to leave for Antarctica and relax.

Frank didn't have long to enjoy his free time, however. Once again the Antarctica project started to unravel.

For the first two weeks after returning from Russia, everything seemed in place. The DC-3 Tri-Turbo had completed its season flying logistics for the navy in the high Arctic, and was back at its home base in Santa Barbara. Clay Lacy was on board as pilot, Giles Kershaw as co-pilot. While not quite finalized, it seemed the insurance coverage from Lloyds would go through. There was a green light on the Chileans parachuting the crucial refueling cache halfway down the Antarctic Peninsula, at their Rothera base on Adelaide Island. Yuichiro Miura, the Man Who Skied Down Everest, was eager to come and fund half the expedition's $250,000 cost. The other two lead climbers, Chris Bonington and I, were both ready to go.

Now in early October the plans began to come apart. The first problem was Lloyds, which couldn't find all the underwriters required to insure the project.

"It's eighty-five percent in place," Frank told d.i.c.k over the phone. "But the owner of the plane says a hundred percent or no go. I don't know what else I can do but keep pressuring Lloyds to contact everybody they can think of."

A few days later Frank called d.i.c.k again: "Insurance is looking okay, but now we've got another wrench in the gears. Clay Lacy is having health problems and just dropped out."

Frank knew this had the potential of a death blow, as the plane's owner had said he would allow the aircraft to go only if Lacy were pilot. Frank called the owner to ask if there was any conceivable replacement.

"What about Giles Kershaw? He has more hours in the Antarctic than anybody. Let's make him pilot."

The owner agreed, if a suitable co-pilot could be found. With only ten days before the plane was to depart, they had to find someone qualified who could also, on such short notice, get away for a month and a half. They finally located Sandy Bredin, a United pilot who also operated a charter service to Southern California's primitive Channel Islands and was used to wilderness flying.

Eight days before the plane was to begin the five-day trip from California to Chile Frank again called d.i.c.k: "Unbelievable. One of the engines on the plane just blew. A bearing or some d.a.m.n thing; the entire engine has to be taken apart. It'll take a week at least to fix."

The plane's owner agreed to rebuild the turboprop as quick as possible, a $90,000 job. They were halfway through the task when Frank called d.i.c.k with yet another hurdle.

"Just got a call from Chile. They're, having trouble down there finding enough money to keep the country going. The price of copper is so low they may sc.r.a.p their whole Antarctica program. If that goes, our fuel drop goes, and if the fuel drop goes, we don't go."

Frank decided he should leave for Chile a couple of days early to do what he could to guarantee the fuel drop. The engine rebuild was completed and the aircraft was ready, barring any new problems. Just when things seemed in place, though, the next problem developed.

"We've got some kind of trouble getting clearance to fly over Peru," Frank told d.i.c.k. "It's because Giles is British and the Peruvians are still mad about the Falklands war. Apparently they just forced two British Antarctic Survey planes to land and held them under arrest."

Giles Kershaw told Frank not to worry. "We won't let something like this stop us. We're taking off tomorrow regardless, and if by the time we get there we still don't have clearance I'll refuel in Ecuador and fly out to sea around the place."

This solution was typical Kershaw. After eight continuous seasons flying in the Antarctic he was used to operating with no international boundaries, no traffic control towers, no flight clearances. Antarctica was the last true land frontier on earth and Giles Kershaw was in every sense one of its pioneers, a man used to surviving by his wits, not by the strictures of bureaucrats.

Shortly before midnight on November 7, Kershaw, co-pilot Sandy Bredin, engineer Rick Mason, and Beverly Johnson-a well-known climber and adventurer hitching a ride to Patagonia-took off from Van Nuys airport near Los Angeles and shuttled to Palm Springs where they waited for dawn. On a crisp morning under clear skies over the California high desert they took off on a five-day trip that would average 130 miles an hour. Their hopscotching itinerary included stops in Texas and the tiny Caribbean island of San Andres. Then Panama and Guayaquil. There they learned they had gained clearance to fly over Peru, and after a short stop in Lima they made it to Arica, then Antof.a.gasto. In several places they made short layovers to spread their sleeping bags in the fuselage and get a few hours sleep.

Meanwhile Frank caught a Pan Am flight to Santiago to press the generals on the question of the fuel drop. During the last phone call before he left his contact in Chile said the drop was still questionable, but added he was nevertheless optimistic. When Frank arrived, his contact, General Lopotegui, met him at the airport.

"Things look good," the General said. "The C-130 should make the airdrop in two or three days."

"We just may pull this thing off yet," Frank said in a weary voice, tired but relieved.

Next day the Tri-Turbo arrived, and by the following day all team members were in Santiago. I flew down with d.i.c.k. Bonington, who had arrived the day before from London, met us at the airport. From there we shuttled to a nearby military airport where the Tri-Turbo was parked. We found Frank and Steve Marts at the officer's club, eating lunch on a veranda overlooking a palm-lined swimming pool.

"Here's the plan," Frank said. "The Tri-Turbo leaves for Punta Arenas day after tomorrow. Any of us can go down on it, or catch a commercial flight, your choice. Right now we're organizing climbing gear in the hangar, so we'll finish that and load the plane tomorrow."

Frank introduced us to a Chilean air force officer, Captain Frias, who had been appointed to accompany us on the expedition. As we walked toward the hangar Frank explained that the Chileans were interested in the possibility of chartering the Tri-Turbo in the future for their own Antarctic operations, and as part of the deal to give us a fuel drop they asked we take Captain Frias, who would file a report on the plane's performance.

"What an irony," Sandy Bredin said, "spending three weeks parked in subzero weather at the base of Vinson with some Latin American military air jock named Captain Cold."

In the hangar I met Yuichiro Miura and his cameraman Tae Maeda. Miura was sorting his gear, which was spread around the hangar. He had extremely well-muscled legs and a handsome, sun-weathered face. He looked in his late thirties, perhaps early forties. (I was impressed to learn later he was fifty.) With the austral summer temperature in the mid-eighties, he was bare-chested and wore jogging trunks and, incongruously, large leather climbing boots.

"New boots," he said smiling. "Better to break them in early."

His cameraman filmed while he sorted his gear, adjusted his ski bindings, and packed his rucksack. Miura's plan was still to ski from the top of Vinson, and to complete a one and a half hour show on the adventure for j.a.panese television. Miura was a modern-day samurai, unflinchingly facing danger on skis; a folk hero so well known in j.a.pan that he had once been besieged in a Tokyo restaurant by a gang of young women who ripped his shirt off and wrote their names with marker pens on his chest.

I sorted my gear, then went to work mounting the traces on our sledges. Before leaving, Frank had put me in charge of food and equipment, but with a hectic schedule I; had had little time to take care of it all so now I wanted to double-check to make sure we had everything. A quick survey revealed we were short two ropes, but there was a store in town that sold mountaineering gear.

"How about the first aid kit?" Bonington asked.

"First aid?" I had forgotten all about it.

"The plane has one," Giles said. "Let's see what's in it."

We pulled it from under a seat and opened it: Band-Aids, tape, compresses, and several sacks that looked like bean bags.

"What are those?"

"Says here, 'Chemical Ice Packs.'"

"Hmm, wouldn't want to go to Antarctica without plenty of those."

I spent the next morning shopping for first aid supplies while the others readied the plane. Frank, dressed conservatively in dark suit and tie, waited for a delegation of Chilean air force bra.s.s who wanted to inspect the plane, as part of their interest in it for their own Antarctic operations. Several colonels arrived, and while they waited for the commanding general, Frank chatted with them; they all spoke reasonably good English. Steve Marts was standing by to film the scene. The general's car appeared on the tarmac, and when he spotted it Frank yelled over to Marts, "Get ready to shoot the general." Two of the colonels suddenly whipped around, reached for their pistols, and started toward Marts.

"No, no," Frank said, raising his arms to stop the colonels. "I mean film film the general. You know, shoot film." the general. You know, shoot film."