by Joe Poyer
Folsom looked around wildly but the horizon ahead was bare. In the past few minutes the aurora borealis had grown in intensity, but its wild gyrations made visibility even poorer. All three were gasping hoarsely for breath, barely this side of collapse themselves. But not once did they stop to consider their own bodies. The thought uppermost in their minds was: If they were this bad off, how much worse was Teleman?
With a hoarse command from Folsom, they started forward again.
By now they had come three miles from the tent. The tent and the Russians were lost in the gloom on the northern horizon. For the first time since he had landed on the. North Cape, Folsom began to hope for a resurgence in the high winds that had buffeted them all through the day, or better yet, another blizzard. Given either to wipe out the last traces of their trail and they might win yet. But the cloudless sky offered the hope of neither.
They were running again, running with the desperation of exhausted men who must run to save their lives and that of a comrade. Under the eerily lighted sky they raced on across the snow-covered expanse of the tundra plain in pursuit of the staggering track of the delirious pilot.
Once they stopped for a brief rest and Folsom searched the horizon with the binoculars.
There was no sign of pursuit in any direction. But he knew that condition would not last.
Then they were off again, to stop almost immediately. Gadsen had seen it first, a lump of rags huddled into the snow.
Complete and utter silence had descended over the vast reaches of the North Cape.
Along the shore the storm-raised combers
continued to pound against the rock with monotonous regularity. But inland nothing moved on the plain of snow. It was as if the cold had frozen even the air into immobility.
Folsom knelt down by Teleman's body and turned him over slowly. He pushed back the neck flap, pulled off one of his own gloves and felt for a heartbeat.
"I'll be damned. He's still alive," he said wonderingly. "You're kidding," Gadsen said, dropping down beside him. "How the hell could he be?".
Folsom shook his head and rebuttoned Teleman's neck flap. "You've got me. Now, how do we get him out of here?"
McPherson shrugged out of his pack and reslung his rifle. "I'll carry him."
CHAPTER I9
The strident sounds of the battle alarm echoed through the ship. No practice situation now; each crew member understood fully that this was the real thing. Lieutenant Commander Bridges, strapped into the seat of the executive officer's console, watched the battle lights flick from amber to green as each station reported in. A hard knot of both fear and excitement was building in his stomach as the track of the submarine, relayed to his console from the large bridge display, began to move steadily towards the battle cruiser.
"All stations manned and ready, sir," he reported, as the last light, the security room, turned green.
"Thank you, Mr. Bridges," Larkin said calmly. "Bring her around on a course of op° and ten knots, rig for silent running. All ECM to on."
Bridges punched the heading into the computer console and stabbed down the ECM gear switch. The computer control net within the ship allowed either the captain or the executive officer to control the ship during battle stations, thus avoiding the delays encountered in relaying orders through the helmsman and then to the engine room.
Larkin still preferred to sit aloof on his high seat and give orders, leaving it to the executive officer to handle the ship. No provisions had been made for controlling the ship from any other location, nor was there need. In nuclear sea warfare there is no such item on the shipwright's bill of materials as armor plate. And conventional weapons were of no value against the U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy, as she was well ,protected by her speed, defensive weaponry, and ECM gear. A direct hit on the bridge would not matter.
A hit with nuclear weapons within 500 yards would destroy her utterly. Within one mile, a direct hit would probably kill the entire ship's complement with radiation.
Larkin had not moved his eyes from the holographic map display since the Russian submarine had turned toward them and begun to run out to sea, directly away from North Cape Island, where it had lain since early that afternoon. Since 1500 the RFK had tried in vain to maintain a radar and sonar watch on the submarine, but its proximity to the rock walls of the cliffs edging the island had created a maze of conflicting signals.
All during the long afternoon and evening, the feeling that the Russians had indeed landed a second party had grown. Now, with the submarine moving for a third time, it could mean either that the Soviet commander had realized his mistake and was moving to land a third party ashore between Folsom and the naval base, or that the RFK had been spotted. Long, agonizing minutes passed with the speed of a glacier's tread as the submarine increased its speed to twenty-two knots on a course that would bring an intercept in less than an hour.
Finally, after twenty minutes, the submarine came about to a course paralleling the west coast. Larkin let loose a sigh of relief that was lost in similar sounds from the other eight men on the bridge. The submarine was still unaware of their presence. But an even greater dilemma now presented itself to Larkin. His theory, that the submarine was moving down the coast to drop the third shore party as close to the unsuspecting naval base as it dared, from which they would then work their way back to meet Folsom, was confirmed.
He knew that he could trust Folsom to avoid capture as far as possible. But Folsom was surrounded and probably not even aware of it. As he weighed the possibilities, the choices became clear to him.
As captain of the U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy, and responsible not only for the safety of the ship but his own shore party and the downed pilot, Larkin indeed had a choice to make: reveal his position to the submarine and engage, or wait until the third shore party was dropped and move in to destroy the submarine and save his own landing party with whatever fire support he could
provide. The first choice was the more logical, but its danger lay in the fact that the Soviets had already expended a great effort to capture Teleman, and it was more than likely that the submarine would turn and fight rather than run. If that happened, it could very well be the start of, if not a third world war, then a major freeze in East-West relations, which could be even more disastrous in the long run. A third possibility, that Teleman would be captured and taken aboard the submarine, which would then be sunk, to Larkins credit, never even suggested itself.
Larkin, very uncharacteristically, had sent off a blistering message to Virginia with instructions to relay to Washington and the White House Position Room for immediate action. The message had laid down in no uncertain terms exactly what would happen if the submarine was allowed to disgorge its human freight. Minutes ago a terse message had come in over the direct channel ordering him to wait for orders.
Now he sat at the command console, the power and weaponry of an entire World War II Navy at his command rolled into one single ship, and he was powerless. All he could do was shadow the submarine at a distance of eighty miles. It was now obvious to Larkin that the submarine commander was heading for a sheltered spot on the western. coast of the North Cape to drop a third landing party. The Soviet skipper was obviously going to attempt to take advantage of the bad sea conditions as cover *for his landing party above the Norwegian naval base. If he did so, all hope for Folsom and his party outrunning the other two parties was gone. They would fall right into the arms of this third party.
Larkin was caught in a quandary and his helplessness showed in the steady drumming of his fingers on the console panel. He decided to wait. The submarine was now moving around the lee of the North Cape. and into the weather side, exposed to the wind and waves that screamed down from -the Great Barrier across two hundred miles of open sea. It was just possible that the submarine would not be able to spot a location where a third shore party could be landed.
The U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy dug into the waves as Larkin ordered her speed increased to fifteen knots. S
he burrowed into the high waves and thrust forward, white water breaking around her bow as she swept on, running for position off .the mouth of the fjord.
"Hold his head up a little higher . . . he'll choke if .. ."
Teleman did choke as the steaming hot tea dribbled in equal portions down his chin and throat. He coughed wealdy, tried to sit up, and found he could not.
"I'll be damned," he heard someone say. "I never thought he'd wake up again."
He managed to open his eyes, focus on the face above, but it was a moment or two before he recognized Folsom beneath the beard and cold blisters. He lay back exhausted until a heavy voice, speaking a guttural language, brought him bolt upright, mind clear and sharp for the first time in two days. In back of Folsom was a parka-clad. figure holding a rifle loosely but ready on the back of Folsom's head. Beyond the Russian soldier were several more, all crowded into the tent, heads bent together as they talked.
Every few moments one of them would look over at him, a smite of victory on his face.
He found Gadsen and McPherson, both cramped against the tent wall with their hands and feet bound securely. Only Folsom was unfettered, and the Russian guard never took the rifle off the back of his head.
"How the hell . . ." he began.
Folsom gave a brief smile. "You decided to . ."
That was as far as he got. The Russian jabbed him in the back with the rifle and motioned him away from Teleman. Then he called out a phrase in Russian to the group of men.
One of them, stooping in the low tent, came over to where Teleman. was sitting and grabbed his wrist. Angrily, • Teleman shook his hand loose and pushed the man away.
The guard stepped in close with the rifle, shoving it into Teleman's face, forcing him back against the rolled-up sleeping bag.
"You goddanined idiot, get that thing out of my face before I take it away from you and bend it over your head."
The Russian did not understand English, but the intent of Teleman's words was clear. His smile grew wider and he moved in closer, snapping off the safety at the same time. A harsh word from the man Teleman had pushed away stopped him and he backed up, still wearing the grin that plainly invited Teleman to try and back up his outburst.
Teleman saw that, like Folsom, the Russians were heavily bearded and their faces all bore traces of frostbite and the chapping
effects of the dry, bitter air. This must have been the first party, he thought, the group that had been chasing them for nearly three days. He wondered how they had managed to take them unaware in the tent. He glanced over at Folsom, but the exhausted executive officer was sitting with his forehead resting on drawn-up knees, almost asleep.
"You are the pilot of the American spy airplane?" the Russian asked in accented but perfectly understandable English. "What kind of airplane?"
Teleman mimicked the accent.
"You are stubborn. However, that will not last. For now, are you feeling all right?"
Teleman ignored him and slumped back down on the sleeping bag and closed his eyes. "
Get lost," he said wearily.
The Russian gave the guard instructions in Russian and Teleman caught the words chyornii chelovek, and knew they referred to him. The guard nodded and backed away to sit down against the wall of the tent, rifle in his hands, relaxed but ready.
Behind his shut eyelids Teleman's mind worked furiously. Flashes of memory having to do with running across the tundra kept passing through his mind, but he could not decide if they had to do with the long day's hike or were somewhere in between. He kept recalling green buildings on the horizon, but ascribed these to dreams. He still had vivid memories of the dream involving the Mongolian sheepherder. As Teleman got himself under control and began to think clearly again, he realized that for the past forty-eight hours he had been fighting off the effects of lingering traces of lysergic acid and amphetamines. Even without the drug effects, the long periods of the desperate flight across the North Cape should have been forgotten as they occurred. This would have been normal for any man as exhausted as he was. But not to be ahle to remember more than highly colored and wavering details as seen through a glass partly obscured with flowing water, Teleman knew was not normal. Then with a shock he realized that he could remember nothing at all since one of the late afternoon rest stops. He could recall no more than hazy snatches of a warm sleeping bag and Folsom's voice laying out the'
guard-duty pattern.
Teleman concentrated on what Folsom had said, trying to bring back a little of what remained .. . he had awakened to see Folsom and McPherson rolled into their sleeping bags. Gadsen had been
on guard duty and he remembered that he had crept away from the tent. The entire sequence of events suddenly was clear to him. He had been convinced that the three Americans were plotting to kill him, to keep him from falling into Russian hands. He had crept away from the tent to run south with the idea of reaching the Norwegian naval base. He recalled the bitter cold . . . falling . . . and after that, nothing, until he had awakened a few minutes ago as Folsom forced the hot tea down his throat.
He opened his eyes, sick with the realization that Folsom, Gadsen, and McPherson had been captured because they had come after him rather than save their own skins by abandoning a madman and making a run for the Norwegians. Now the four were exhausted, their last hope completely gone. Five Russians were in the tent and, as he glanced about, the tent flap parted and a sixth entered.
He closed his eyes again. He was to blame for their being captured. It had been a foolish stunt to try and run- for it alone. It had been a stupid reaction to believe that the three sailors who were risking their freedom, their very lives for him, would try to kill him.
That this reaction was due to the traces of the drugs still left in his system, coupled with exhaustion and intense cold, did not occur to Teleman. He knew only that he was to blame.
"Hey, Commie, come over here." Teleman struggled up into a sitting position again, sneering at the guard who swung the rifle to cover him.
The English-speaking Russian approached and Teleman motioned toward the guard. "
Tell that fool to put that thing away before he shoots himself."
The Russian ignored him; his face bore no traces of humor at. Teleman's attempted levity. "What do you want?"
"I want to know what happens next."
The Russian turned away and Teleman grabbed his sleeve. The Russian swung around and hit him squarely across the face. ' "Keep your hands to yourself," he said through clenched lips. "You or your friends killed two of my men. I do not like that. If I did not have such orders, I would kill you all and have done with
Teleman rubbed his face where the other had struck hint "Did it ever occur to. you that your own pilots tried, and almost succeeded, to kill me?"
"Of course. You are a spy," the other hissed and left him.
So that's that, Teleman thought. No information is going to come out of that one. Of course he knew what was going to happen now. Very soon there would be more Russians, and then a long walk to the coast and the waiting submarine. Then back to Murmansk at high speed where an MVD cellar and an intelligence squad would be waiting to question him. Oh, very carefully of course. There would be no actual physical torture, but Teleman knew what successive hours of sleeplessness could do, particularly in his condition. And after they had taken blood samples and found the drug traces in his system, they would know just what chemicals and combinations of interrogation to use.
He would never know just what he would sign in a matter of hours. Nor, for the purposes the Russians had in mind, Would he need to know. With a signed confession and carefully edited television tapes to play to the world, it would make little or no difference what he said or did. His capture and subsequent confession would not offset the black mark the Russians were going to take over the war in Sinkiang, but the information they would extract from him would make the trouble more than worthwhile. Then it would be years before the United States would be able
to develop a new surveillance system of such magnitude—the completion of the Super SAMOS system was still five years away.
Damn it all, he thought bitterly, he had really blown it now.
Teleman lay back against the sleeping bag and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the knowledge of what the coming hours would bring, not only for himself, but for Folsom, McPherson, and Gadsen. Be knew they would receive the same kind of treatment. The capture of three American sailors would only be the icing on the propaganda cake. For the Russians it would be a double victory. Not only would they have the pilot of the most advanced aircraft the United States had ever built, but three crew members, of the most advanced naval ship—all for practically free.
Teleman shifted uncomfortably, and as he did so his hand brushed something hard beneath his parka. His breath caught in his throat. Very carefully, as casually as he could, he moved his hand away. The Russians had not searched him. Of course not, he thought, he had been almost dead when they found him. They would have been in too much of a hurry to get him back to the tent. And, in failing to search him, they had missed the .22
caliber
survival pistol he had pushed into the waistband of his trousers when he had dressed for the start of the long race. Probably not even Folsom was aware that he had the pistol. It had remained tucked inside the folds of fur and nylon where even he had forgotten
•about it.
For several seconds he did not move a muscle, as his mind raced to find a way to capitalize on the possession of the revolver. One .22 caliber, nine-shot revolver against a 7.65 mm Soviet service rifle_ and five other assorted weapons. In the semidarkness of the tent could the guard determine its puny size? If he could, would it make a difference?
