North Cape

by Joe Poyer

  After this little bit of unscheduled horseplay, his' fuel load was going to be cut mighty fine to get him to rendezvous. He would have to reduce speed severely and yet he still had to get there on time. He was certain that Larkin, from what little he knew of his contact man, could be depended on, gale or no gale. He had not received any weather reports on conditions between Greenland and Novaya Zemlya since he started his run south from the Arctic. To avoid the least possibility of detection, all but two monitoring channels were shut down automatically during the mission portion of any flight over Communist territory. The Soviets were known to monitor the Advanced SAMOS

  satellite system by ground and shipboard stations in an effort to break the codes used.

  The only weather information he could receive, then, was from the military weather satellites directly overhead, and they reported on local conditions only. Satellite-to-satellite transmissions were too easily monitored and traced to allow him to interrogate at will. Teleman could therefore only guess at weather conditions in the Arctic, and if the ice clouds that overlay most of Asia were any indication, he had to conclude that they were extremely bad.

  Once more he had the computer review the flight plan for him. In twelve minutes he would be crossing the border into Soviet territory. Teleman was well aware that, if he had missed anything while setting up the course, the flight plan would end with him and the A-17 scattered across miles of steppe, rather than orbiting the Robert F. Kennedy prior to refueling for home.

  After crossing the border, the flight path would take him over the southern end of the Caspian Sea to the Caucasus Mountains and across the Sea of Azov, then over the bend in the Dnieper River to bypass Kiev, and out across the Ukraine to Poland. Over the Ukraine, he had a choice to make. Depending on local weather conditions and any indications of Soviet fighter activity, he could, if he had to, drop farther south into the Czechoslovakia-Hungary region and run for West Germany and the North Sea. That alternative was his last-ditch escape attempt if they tried to intercept him over continental Russia. If not, he would make for Poland and the Baltic Sea and up across the Scandinavian Peninsula. That route would put him at the rendezvous point with ten minutes of fuel left, much more preferable than ditching in the Barents Sea. He could do the last in seven hours by holding his speed to Mach 1.5, his most economical cruising speed.

  Ahead now was the Soviet border, and it was time to crank out the radar counterdetection gear. A circle of interference sixteen hundred miles across would keep them busy for a long time, hunting for him with that damned visual gear.

  CHAPTER 9

  Larkin was on watch, strapped securely into Ms high seat, when Folsom stumbled through the Hatchway onto the bridge. Larkin nodded a greeting without taking his eyes from the violent seas visible through the revolving screen. Truly mountainous waves were building, even here in the lee of the cliffs forming the sea edge of the North Cape.

  Folsom, peering out through the spinning circle of glass that kept the ice and sleet from completely shrouding the bridge windows, was shocked to see just how high and rough they had become in the two hours he had been off bridge duty. In the engine room, where he had been assisting with the overhaul for the last hour, the motion of the ship had been rough, rougher than he had ever experienced that far down in the hull of any ship. But the spread of tortured wave and glooming sky through the glass was beyond belief.

  Folsom estimated the waves to be rising nearly eighty feet. The anemometer showed wind speed gusting to 1o5 knots. The sweep of horizon, broken only by the faintly visible headlands of the Cape to the extreme west, was filled with masses of cyclonic cloud that intermittently obscured frost-sharp stars, glistening momentarily overhead whenever the ship, cresting a wave, rose out of the dense spray fog. The wind-riven clouds, still low on the horizon; were bearing down savagely. In less than two hours the U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy would reel under the impact of the storm's major onslaught.

  Since early morning Folsom had been aware of a mild tension building in the pit of his stomach. Now staring through the spinning disk of glass, it threatened to choke him. He swallowed

  and reswallowed as inconspicuously as possible. He had been through bad gales before, but never one of such fury or with a damaged ship. For the hundredth time since the strain gauges had been installed, he leaned over to study the dials. All four gauges, their leads attached to the insides of the patch and to the hull plates, showed periodic flex that he knew would be loosening the welding beads. Earlier he had sent a crew into the hull tank to reweld the plates flush against the tank, but they had been. unable to finish more than three strengthening bars before the mounting vibration of the hull plates against the hammering of wind and wave made further work impossible.

  Folsom turned away from the dials and noticed Larkin's face as he stared into the wind-and wave-filled night. The narrow face was strangely lit by the soft bridge lights, causing the angles and planes of the skull to set in rigid patterns. The face betrayed not the first sign of emotion. In spite of the intensity of the angry sea, Larkin sat comfortably in the high seat, arms folded across his chest, studying the small cone of night visible through the madly whirling screen.

  Folsom's musings were interrupted by the radioman.. Startled, he turned to find the rating standing at his shoulder. Folsom glanced at the sailor's face and was not surprised to see the small light of controlled fear deep in the man's eyes. He knew the same flicker of light must also be in his. Hurriedly he took the message and turned away.

  "Ye gods," he said softly. "Here it comes."

  Larkin turned his head to look at him, then accepted the message Folsom handed to him.

  He read it through without comment, then passed it back to Folsom.

  "It does look like we are in for it. Gale force winds of 125 to 130 knots expected in the next three hours, decreasing to go to 110 knots for the following eight hours. Ouch."

  Larkin bent forward to read the strain gauges. "How much time before we reach the turnaround point?"

  Folsom glanced at his watch. "About ninety minutes, sir." Larkin rubbed his face absently, and then stared at hid hand as if expecting to find the answer there. When he did not, he grunted and looked up at Folsom.

  "Stress is building far too rapidly on the bow section to suit me.

  I think it's time we came about. We can loiter somewhat on the way back to make it come out right, can't we?"

  "Yes, sir?'

  "In that case, prepare to come about, Mr. Folsom."

  Folsom nodded and made for the plotting table, the ball of fear in his stomach growing larger and tighter at the same time.

  He had to force himself to keep his voice steady as he ordered the general quarters alarm sounded through the ship, then made the announcement. He had just finished and was putting the microphone back into its clip when the ship's intercom buzzer sounded. He flicked the switch on. "Bridge here."

  "Mr. Folsom, Rigsby here. We got real trouble in the hull tank. Those damned welders . .

  . the whole patch is weakening fast."

  Folsom spun around. One of the needles on the strain-gauge dial was jerking madly.

  Almost at the same time, the other gauge started to follow.

  "Captain," he spat out, and flipped the volume up a bit so that Larkin could hear.

  "Go on, Rigsby."

  "The main forward structural member is cracked--right alongside the weld. I'm getting a trickle of water right now near the top of the patch."

  "Is there anything that can be done?" Larkin asked.

  "Yes, sir. Flood the tank." The tinny reproduction of the intercom barely concealed the nervousness of the man's voice. Folsom could imagine him all alone in the immensity of the tank, knowing that the interior hatch was secured and that it would take forty seconds to get it open. If the patch should go, he would be crushed to death by tons of freezing water pouring into the tank. That same water would also pull the RFK down farther by the how until the first wave that broke would sen
d her straight to the bottom. Folsom could feel the knot of fear rising into his throat, threatening to erupt into endless screams. The figures on the scratch pad, which he had scribbled from the strain-gauge dials, dissolved into a meaningless jumble, and the console reeled for a moment before he clenched the side of the plotting table and gripped until his knuckles went dead white.

  He fought with his body to control the panic as he watched the wind indicator flicker wildly with the first of the gusts that would quickly grow to a full 125-knot gale. Flashes of thought broke through his *guard . . . the sudden

  wrenching snap as the bow broke loose under the pounding and the bulkheads . . . never designed to withstand the pressures of the naked, angry sea .. . giving way one by one . . .

  the RFK settling deeper into the waves . . . the Arctic seas pounding and smashing through the bulkheads . . . the ship buckling against the impact . . . plunging bow downward. . . .

  "We're shoring up the patch and the structural member with braces, but they won't hold up long."

  "All right then, do what you can and keep me informed." Larkin's voice was calm in the midst of Folsom's own mental storm. "But as soon as you get the braces installed, I want you and the crew out of there. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir, but if we stay, or one of us anyway, we'll shave time to warn you and get out."

  "No," Larkin said sharply. "You could not give me any more than a minute or so warning. The strain gauges will provide that. As soon as you are finished with the bracing, get out and report aft to the repair station. Is that understood?"

  Larkin's matter-of-fact analysis of the situation and Rigsby's almost suicidal offer to remain behind in the hull tank to provide the ship with a few seconds extra warning began to calm Folsom. He had never experienced this kind of paralyzing fear before, but he knew, as did every man who faces danger in situations over which he has little control, that eventually he would meet this shattering fear at least once before he died.

  He had seen men suddenly grow rigid before going into battle, or divers just before making a deep dive, veterans who had been through many engagements. It happened, and there was nothing you could do about it except hope that you could handle the situation when it did happen. He reached down and picked up the pencil that had dropped from his nerveless fingers and pressed it slowly onto the pad, willing his muscles to move again, to continue to draw the numbers indicating the course change required and the time they would have to lose at reduced speed to bring them to the rendezvous point on time.

  Larkin flicked off the intercom and turned to Folsom. His voice was strong and full of command. "Mr. Folsom, get me an exact position fix, as close as you can. Then run the new course through the computer and alert the crew that we are coming about. Keep them at general quarters until We have straightened

  out on the new course . . . and make sure that Rigsby and the rest are out of that hull tank. Give them five minutes more. I'm going below for my foul-weather gear. You will take the conn while I am outside, but follow my directions."

  "Outside!" Folsom exploded. "Captain, you can't go out there!"

  Larkin grinned. "Watch me. How else do you think we are going to get her around? You can't see worth a damn through that screen. This ship is going to have to be steered around those waves like a tin can. That means we come about as we crest a wave—and only the right wave at that—and complete the turn before we hit the bottom of the trough or else we will roll over and go right to the bottom."

  Folsom took a deep breath. "Captain, you. will freeze to death before we can come about."

  "Not if you hurry about it."

  Larkin turned away and hurried down to his cabin for his foul-weather gear. When he returned to the bridge a few minutes later, Folsom was just finishing his instructions to the helmsman. He looked up as Larkin came onto the bridge, zipping up his jacket. A marine came hurrying up with a nylon safety line and clipped one end to the harness already around Larkin's chest.

  "Listen for my count. As we come up the wave I'll start counting backward from ten.

  When I get to one, be ready to put the helm over hard . . . and better keep the turbine engines idling up to speed as well. We'll have plenty of need of an extra kick" Folsom nodded and Larkin turned away, jamming the helmet down over his head.

  He snapped the throat mike into place, tested it quickly, then pulled down the faceplate and left through the emergency hatch. Once outside, still in the lee of the bridge, he checked the microphone again, then buckled his safety straps to the railing. With the safety line trailing behind, he was now about as safe as he could possibly be . . . until the first good wave decided to wash him overboard. Against the power of those tons, of water the line would snap; or, if it held, would probably cut him in half.

  The plates of the catway leading around the top of the bridge structure were caked solid with ice. That ice, washed constantly by spray, was slippery underfoot, and he moved carefully to keep his footing. As he came out of the lee of the deckhouse, Larkin grunted in surprise as the wind cut through the nylon and

  electrically heated layers of foam padding as if they did not exist. Almost immediately his fingers and toes went numb. The temperature close to —20°, when combined with the 110-knot wind, gave a chill index of —98°. Unprotected, he would not last more than a minute before his heart stopped beating. As Larkin moved out onto the forward position of the weather deck, the wind pulled and plucked at him to send his feet sweeping away. He crashed against the steel wall of the deckhouse with stunning force, and for several minutes was unable to clear his head enough to get to his feet.

  The -forty-foot journey from the deck hatch, up the narrow ladder, and around the curve of the bridge was made, an inch at a time, on hands and knees. The wind was a solid wall of force through which he had to tunnel, and finally he was reduced to using his hands to pull himself from stanchion to stanchion along the railing. The stanchions were set every six feet, just beyond the grasp of his extended arm. He had to wait between each stanchion, arms stretched wide to hold the stanchion and the edge of the catway, resting, readying himself for the lunge to the next. Then, when he grasped it, he had to pull himself painfully up to the frozen metal and reach for the next. His task was made even harder by the fact that each stanchion supported a wedge of ice nearly two feet long to windward. His gloves froze to the ice and he had to pull them loose each time. If he lost a glove, he would also lose a hand. An uncovered hand would freeze into uselessness in less than two minutes. And Larkin needed the use of both hands to make any progress at all. -

  Larkin stretched out full length on the ice-coated deck to reduce the amount of his body exposed to the wind. The wind was like a solid hammer of steel pounding away in rhythmic gusts, thumping him into the ice, and then, as it got under his body and lifted him clear of the deck, flinging him back against the safety line. The struggle soon became concentrated into forcing his Land out to grasp the next stanchion and pull himself along the deck. He had thirty-five more feet to go to reach the center of the catway.

  The strain on Larkin's shoulders was causing the muscles to 'scream, in- protest each time he reached for the next stanchion. Then it happened.

  Between the fourth and fifth stanchion, his hand slipped off the ice-coated tube. The wind reached, slamming him back against the harness, and the line fouled. Another gust of wind caught him and almost pulled him through the railing before he got the straps cleared. Then the petulant wind smashed him back, cracking his leg viciously against the bridge plating as if it were alive and frustrated by the puny efforts of this unbearable, unnoticeable insect. For a minute Larkin lay crumpled against the bulkhead while the pain in his leg slowly subsided. Then by sheer strength of will he pulled himself to the next stanchion.

  After twenty minutes he had managed to get as close to the center of the bridge as he could.

  So much ice, he thought. He would never have believed it. Every square inch of the ship above the water line was coated with
several feet of ice that glistened here and there in the bridge lights. The forward part of the deck was covered with mounds of ice that obscured bollards and lines and winches. No wonder the RFK was riding so low. If he had filled that hull tank the extra tonnage of water in the bow would have brought her so low in the water that they would have been swamped in short order. Although the RFK

  was no submarine, she could ride low for a long while, But eventually the weight of the steadily accumulating ice would send her to the bottom as surely as if the patch had opened.

  Larkin rested against the railing with his arms wrapped around the icy stanchion. After a minute or so he regained enough strength to ask for the searchlights. Two powerful beams of light lanced out, swirling around to light the forepeak before disappearing into the twilight gray. Highlights of green and white foam were snatched from the waves and flung back at him by the wind.

  Larkin pulled himself to his knees and wedged his body be- tween two close-set stanchions. Standing on his knees, he tried to peer ahead into the deep twilight gloom of the Arctic storm as water and ice smashed back at him from the knife-edged prow. He found that he could keep the faceplate of his electrically heated helmet and suit free of ice with his gloves, but the sea and sky were so close to the same shades of greenish gray that it was almost impossible to tell which was which. After a while he began to make sense of the scene. The waves, he found, were silhouetted in the searchlight as the ship climbed toward their crests. He

  timed several, counting the seconds—one thousand . . . two thousand . . . three thousand—until he had gained a rough average of the time it took the RFK to climb, pause at the crest, then rocket down the far side into the deep trough. The motion of the ship was far too irregular to judge the size and height of the waves because of the tremendous forces being applied laterally to the ship by the wind blowing from only two points off the port bow.

  He crouched, waiting, his arms wrapped around the railing. The water streamed back, soaking him thoroughly in spite of the waterproof clothing. The wind drove into his trouser legs between the sealed boot tops and cuffs, down his neck and beneath the helmet, disregarding the faceplate as if it did not exist. He waited, already half frozen, trying desperately to stay awake in the intense cold.