North Cape

CHAPTER 17

When Teleman awoke for the second time, the period of disorientation was immeasurably shorter. In fact, after the dimly remembered cold and wind on the cliffs, the stark, blue walls of the tent, with the litter of survival gear and Arctic clothing, seemed almost comforting. Across the tent, cleaning one of the carbines, knelt the man who had introduced himself as the ship’s executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Peter Folsom. A second sailor, the one who had been asleep next to him before, worked over a pair of makeshift snowshoes. He was a small, almost rat-faced’ young man, Teleman thought, and he was instantly sorry for the comparison:. He hated snap judgments, but was forever making them and usually regretting it later. Teleman grimaced and shifted his head for a better look. Unconscious of the scrutiny, the other worked on, face screwed up in his effort to twist the webbing strings of the netting tighter over the frame. He had a pile of dishwater blond hair that could only be described as unruly, trite though the description was. It was his hands that Teleman noted almost at once. They had long, tapering fingers, but unlike most thin hands these were at once powerful-and sensitive. The sailor looked up from his work and a pleased smile crossed his face.

“Hey, boss, I think our partner in crime is awake.” Folsom looked away from the rifle and grinned as well. “So he is. How are you feeling this time around?”

Teleman pushed a hand out of the sleeping bag and rubbed his forehead. “Other than the damnedest headache you ever heard of, all right, I guess.”

“Feel like you’re up to some traveling?”

“Traveling!” Teleman struggled into a sitting position. The effort left him dizzy and weak. Folsom got up swiftly and crossed the tent, grabbing up a pack as he came. He helped Teleman to sit up and shoved the pack behind his back for support. In the sitting position, Teleman could see that the sailor he had been introduced to earlier, McPherson, was now against the other wall, wrapped in a sleeping bag.

“What about this traveling? Out to the ship, maybe?” The grin disappeared from Folsom’s face to be replaced with a worried frown. “I’m afraid not. The seas are too rough to launch the helicopter and our lifeboat got smashed up as we came in. Now the waves are too high to launch another with even a hope of reaching the beach in one piece. So it seems we are pretty well cut off from the ship.” Teleman absorbed this for a moment “Then what’s the next step?”

“That’s where the traveling comes in. There is a Norwegian-NATO naval air base about twenty-five miles down the coast. We are going to have to head for it.”

“You mean we have to walk twenty-five miles?” Teleman was astounded. He doubted right now if he could walk twenty-five steps, let alone twenty-five miles, and said so. Folsom gave him a wan smile. “I know how you feel, or at least I think I do. I am not so sure that any of us can do it. The weather out there is like nothing you have ever seen before, worse even than when you landed yesterday.”

The executive officer smiled at the surprise on Teleman’s face. “Yeah, early yesterday in fact. You’ve been out for the twenty-four hours since we found you.”

“Good God, I had no idea…”

“Don’t feel bad about it. You were in pretty rough shape when we picked you up. Another few minutes out there and we would have had to chip you out of a block of ice.” Folsom turned. “Julie, wake Mac up. We got some talking to do, then we had better make tracks.”

Folsom stretched across the mound of gear and pulled another pack to him. While McPherson went through the motions of waking up, Folsom rummaged through the contents of the pack and came out with a zippered, waterproof plastic map case. He selected one and spread it out next to Teleman’s sleeping bag while. the other two gathered around. McPherson crawled up on his knees, scratching his heavy black beard. He smiled shyly again at Teleman and stuck out a hand. “Glad to see you awake again, sir.”

“This joker here,” Folsom said, indicating the other sailor, “the one you haven’t been formally introduced to, is Chief Warrant Officer Julian Gadsen. He’s another free-loader. His specialty is driving the captain’s launch — and eating.” Gadsen chuckled and reached a band through the maze of shoulders and shook Teleman’s hand. Teleman discovered that at least part of his first impression had been right. Gadsen’ s hands were indeed strong. Obviously Gadsen was something other than what Folsom suggested — a seagoing taxi driver.

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you before because you dropped off to sleep again, but we’re all three from the U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy.”

Immediately, Teleman glanced sharply at Folsom.

“Now wait,” Folsom said, “I’m aware of what’s going on. These two aren’t, but. at this point in the situation we are all in, you don’t have to worry. Both are cleared about as high as you can go. You have to be to get assigned to the RFK.” Teleman thought about it a moment. “Okay,” he said tightly, “maybe you are right for now. I’m in no position to bargain at the moment. But let’s just stay away from that area right now.”

Folsom nodded. He could see that Gadsen and McPherson were doing their best to maintain noncommittal smiles. He knew that security procedures do funny things to people, particularly when they are not privy to the secrets being discussed. Innuendoes or oblique references always create hostilities no matter how much you realize the need for security and secrecy in military or defense affairs. He only hoped that Teleman wasn’t going to turn out to be a son of a bitch on such a minor matter — at least at the moment. Teleman was well aware of what Folsom was thinking. He could see by the withdrawn expressions that maybe he had overstepped a little. He was about to say something to ease the situation when the thought suddenly occurred to him that he really did not know who these people were. The idea that they could be. Soviet agents acting out a part was half rejected in his mind as being overly dramatic, when angrily he pushed the modifying thought down.

It was not too farfetched. It was not any more farfetched than his flying a supersecret aircraft at one to two hundred thousand feet over the continent of Asia for five and six days at a time, or that they should shoot him down and on, of all places, the North Cape of Norway. He studied the three men gathered around him and for a moment found himself ready to listen for traces of a Russian accent. That did it. He burst out laughing. The three sailors were taken by surprise. “Now what the hell are you laughing about?” Gadsen demanded.

Teleman laughed even harder. “You… wouldn’t believe… it if I—I… I told you,” he choked out at last. Then he went into throes of hysterical laughter. Gadsen and Folsom exchanged glances, then Julie leaned forward and slapped him sharply, once, then twice. The second slap brought Teleman around and he stopped, shut his eyes, and sank back down into the sleeping bag. In seconds he was sound asleep.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Folsom said.

“You probably are anyway, chief,” Gadsen snorted. “That was a classic case,of nervous release. God, what that poor guy must have been through lately. Judging from his reaction, he must have been close to a complete nervous collapse. Now he’ll probably sleep for an hour or two, then when he wakes up he’ll be all right.”

“Julie” — Folsom clapped him on the shoulder — “even if you never finished medical school, you are a definite comfort to have around. Come on you two,” he said, shaking his head, let’s get this junk ready to go.”

This time, as Teleman slept, he dreamed that he was back in the A-17, being pursued by a series of Falcons. As each aircraft rose to replace the one ahead it closed quickly and fired a missile.. The ice-sharp clarity of the Asian terrain unreeling before him shifted’ with the watery changes of dreams, but somehow the mass of the Himalayas to his right never varied, either in view or intensity. He was passing so close to the bulk of the mountain flanks that he could clearly see a Mongolian sheepherder, mounted on a wiry pony, waving to him. As he watched the man, the A-17 came to bang opposite, so close that the wing tip, fully extended, seemed to brush along the Mongolian’s cap. The sheepherder glanced back along the way Teleman had come, and turning himself, Teleman could see through the solid wall of the cockpit the entire valley spread out below. Close behind were two Falcons, so close that rockets emerging in slow motion from the pods on either side of the aircraft’s nose were already visible. Both he and the sheepherder turned at the same moment to stare directly at one another. The Mongolian began to wave at the following aircraft, his face suffused with the agony of helplessness. Teleman turned again, and this time the rockets had traveled half the distance and grown in size until they were as wide as freight cars. They traveled in three sets of pairs and seemed to reach out to encompass him. The Mongolian was still waving desperately at his wings. Sittihg in the pilot’s couch, face pressed against the glassite of the view port, Teleman could not understand why the A-17 was not moving. The sound of the engines thundered in his ears, yet the aircraft would not budge. The Mongolian vaulted from his horse and ran forward to grasp the extended wing and, with a mighty heave, wrenched it backward. Then Teleman understood. With a last glance back at the rockets reaching out hungry hands for the tail section of the A-17, he threw the switch that swung the wings back. The aircraft vaulted forward, instantly leaving the now smiling face of the sheepherder disappearing in the distance. The crazy patchwork of the dream began to flow backward into a smooth whirlpool that suddenly sprang high and Teleman was sitting both upright and awake. Folsom sprang up, startled by Teleman’s sudden movement. “Ye gods, you startled me.” Teleman looked around for a moment, not quite sure what was reality and what was dream. “Where are my clothes?” he asked thickly.

Cadsen picked up a pack and crawled over to Teleman’s sleeping bag. “The clothes you arrived in are not the kind you want to wear when hiking in the Arctic, my boy.” He opened the pack and pulled out a pair of wide-mesh nylon underwear, lined ski pants, a loose nylon sweater, and a quilted dacron parka and hood and pushed them toward Teleman.

“Put these on. I think you’ll find them quite a bit warmer than a flight suit.”

“Yes, and hurry too. We were just about to wake you.” Teleman did as he was told, fumblingly at first as his tired brain sorted out fact from dream fiction. Some of the iron weariness had left him after his long sleep. But not enough, he thought. His body was still sluggish, although he knew he would lose some of that once out into the cold fresh air. But he knew damned well that he would never be able to walk twenty-five miles… why did they have to walk twenty-five miles anyway? He could not remember at first, then gradually, as the cobwebs cleared away, he remembered snatches of conversation they had had earlier. Teleman pulled the parka over his head, found his .22 revolver on top of his pack, and surreptitiously tucked it inside. Then, with the boots in his hand, crawled over to where the other three were clustered around a map.

“Our Red friends,” Folsom started without preamble as soon as Teleman joined the circle, “appear to want to welcome us to the land of the midnight sun.” In spite of the flippancy of his words, his voice was grim.

“We were informed about twelve hours ago that a suspected Russian submarine had landed a party of eighteen men about twenty-two miles southeast of here in Porsangerfjord. Then the sub withdrew’ a few miles and submerged. The landing party headed westward, apparently searching for you,” he said glancing up at Teleman. Teleman shook his head in confusion. “How the hell would they know where I was?” Folsom grinned wryly. “I suppose if we could track you down by radar they could too:’

“But that’s impossible. The ejection capsule carries its own ECM gear. They would never have been able to track me.”

“Could be,” Folsom admitted, “but somehow they are onto you. Maybe they just figured that you would have bailed out somewhere along the coast and as a last-ditch measure sent out the landing party in the hopes of picking you up.

“Be that as it may, they are out looking for you. Three hours ago Mac, here, got back from a little delaying action. He waylaid the party about twelve miles down the beach, shot them.up a little, then led them off into the forest. He estimates we gained about six hours while they sort themselves out of the trees enough to realize they have been tricked. When they figure that out, they will head west again, even faster.”

“Do you think they know exactly where we are?”

“I don’t think so. If they did, they would have come straight here. As it is, Mae says they have one group down on the beach and the other along the top of the cliffs.”

“Well if that’s it,” Teleman said with a deep sigh, “then there isn’t much to worry about. I landed about five miles into the trees. The capsule contains a self-destruct mechanism that literally reduces the thing to a lump of metal. If it’s still snowing, it ought to be pretty well covered up by now. How far back from the cliffs are we?”

“Wait a minute,” Folsom said quietly. “It’s not that simple. We are about a mile back from the beach. And we could move the tent farther south if I thought it would do any good. But our lifeboat is still on the beach. And the damned thing weighs about three tons. There is no way to move it, short of using explosives, which we haven’t got. So the Russians are going to find us if we stay around.”

“Now there is a problem there, isn’t there?” said McPherson, peering through the tent flap.-In spite of himself, Teleman shivered in the icy touch of the Arctic wind.

“It looks as though the wind will be kicking up the sea pretty badly by now. You can even hear the waves smacking into the cliffs. On top of which, the snow is so thick that you can’t see your hand in front of your face. -That rules out the helicopter on two counts…. So we walk.”

“Walk?” Teleman repeated weakly.

“Walk. All the way to the Norwegian naval base, or at least as far in that direction as we can to stay ahead of the Russians. We walk until the helicopter can get in to pick us up or we reach the base.”

Gadsen, who had been studying the map, looked up. “Commander, you’ve studied this place pretty thoroughly, just what kind of a base is it?”

“It’s now a combination radar and naval station. Pretty heavily defended and with some outmoded coastal artillery left by the Nazis, but supplemented with Hawk missiles. Our Ruski friends won’t risk outright aggression to get Teleman back — at least I hope they won’t — and if they do the Norwegians know how to use both the missiles and the artillery.”

“Well why in hell don’t we call them up and ask them to send some help. They must have Sno-cats or something like that.” Folsom looked pained for a moment. “Come on, you know the answer to that as well as I do. The old man says no. And that is that.” Teleman glanced away, slightly ashamed. He knew why the “old man” said no. And he knew that Folsom was practicing a slight deception. The old man was not the commanding officer of the RFK, but his own boss sitting warm and comfortable somewhere in the Virginia foothills. They could not ask, except as a last resort, for help from the Norwegians because he was not supposed to be in Norway. The United States had no authorization from the Norwegian Government for overflights. And the only way to avoid embarrassing questions and strained relations was not to let the Norwegians know that he was in Norway. So they would have to start walking toward the base in the hope that something would happen — either the weather would moderate or else they would be able to get some other kind of aircraft in to pick up the party. If all else failed, they would have to walk in on the Norwegians. The problem at the moment was to stay far enough ahead of the Russians to keep from being captured. Teleman’s head ached with the intensity of tightening thumb screws. In addition to being weary beyond reason, his vision was hazy and full of wild afterimages resulting from the microtraces of lysergic acid remaining in his system. As he sat across from the executive officer he was positive that ample precautions had been taken to ensure that he would not be captured by the Russians. But which of the three sailors had orders to kill him if capture appeared imminent?

Was it Folsom? he wondered. Folsom knew too many details, knew the vital importance of his missions — details that could not be gained by conjecture alone. If not Folsom, which of the other two? McPherson, if what Folsom had told him was true, had hiked eleven miles one way to waylay the Russians. A former member of the SEALS, he would know all about assassination. But, on the other hand, he knew nothing about the other—

What was his name? — Gadsen. Maybe the question, he had raised about the Norwegians sending help was only a blind to allay any suspicion that he, Teleman, might have. God, maybe they were all three in on it. They could be waiting to see how things would work out before they moved. He would just have to waif and see, he decided. But Teleman knew one thing: nobody was going to put a bullet in his back, not after all that he had been through. If he was going to die, then it was going to be from a Russian bullet.

Teleman unconsciously sank back a little farther against the gear. His face took on for the briefest of moments the haunted look of a hunted animal. His eyes were narrow and glittering in the. uncertain light and the skin of his face drew into a drum tightness. If one of the three sailors had been watching, what he would have seen in Teleman’s face might have prevented a portion of tragedy.

Folsom interrupted Teleman’s thoughts as he spread out a more localized map of the North Cape and pointed to a small indentation on — the western side of the deep gash cut in the coastline by the Porsangerfjord. “This is the point where they landed. In this weather it will take them almost a day to travel far enough to reach the lifeboat. Now that Mac has had a crack at them, we can safely assume that we’ve gained another six to eight hours while they chase themselves through the boondocks after the phony trail he left behind. But we have now used up nearly four hours of that time. So, all in all, we are probably still five hours ahead of them, until they get far enough along the coast to spot the lifeboat.

“Now,” he said, staring speculatively at Teleman, “the Russians probably had a darn good idea where you were. But until Mac hit them they probably had no idea you had any help at. all. We. can-expect them to be confused for a while, wondering how many others are waiting in ambush along the way. I think we can consider the RFK as a hole card — although whether a joker or an ace is hard to tell at this point.”

“You know, Pete,” Gadsen interrupted, “if we do get into enough of a bind that we do have to call the Norwegians for help, that damned sub could very well be monitoring for just such a transmission. If that happens, they will probably just move in and shell the. hell out of us. They must be carrying some kind of — deck gun or surface-to-surface rockets.”

“Yeah, I thought of that too. If we do have to call on the Norwegians, it will be up to the captain to decide whether he wants to open fire on the sub Or not. If he does, there will. be no way of hiding the fact. Talk about conditions for an international incident, whew!”

“Kind of in a bind ain’t we, then?”

“Precisely, so lets git. Here’s our destination,” he said, pointing again to the base, marked on the map in red. “We had better move out of these trees and onto the cliffs. It will be rougher going, but we can follow the coastline for a while. About here it turns into tundra, which should be swept pretty free of any deep snow.” He indicated a point about six miles down the coast. “There, I expect, it’ll be a toss-up whether or not the tundra is passable. If so, we go across. If not, we follow the coast.” Teleman leaned closer to examine the chart. It showed an irregular jut of land that bulged around the tundra for a distance of nearly thirteen miles. The contour lines on the chart indicated that the bulge was composed mainly of steep crags and shelving granite, leading to a sharp drop of fifty feet or so to the water. Once past this bulge, the land flattened again to narrow beach and even narrower pine-and scrub-covered terrain fronting the tundra.

“Pray for the tundra,” he murmured. “That climb around the point will be hell.”

“There is one other possibility,” Folsom said thoughtfully. “I had thought of heading south to Kistrand at the head of Porsangerfjord. The only trouble with that is this range of hills, just about here. They rise to a little over a thousand feet in less than the two miles between us and the town. And the only pass or anything resembling a pass leads west, and then south for a total distance of thirty-five miles. According to the map, the pass is at eight hundred feet. Teleman could never make it.

“So then, the only choice we have is to go west toward the naval station at Tanafjord. If the weather breaks, the ship will be able to reach us with the helicopter on the way.” Teleman nodded acquiescence. “All right. If it turns out that somebody has to carry me, don’t say I didn’t wain you. Either.carry me or shoot me,” he added, looking sharply from face to face. He thought he saw a faint tinge of surprise in Folsom’s eyes, but he could not be sure. It did not make any difference, he thought. He must watch all three of them closely now.

Folsom smiled. “All right, we’ve been warned. But don’t worry about it. Even if we do have to carry you, we will get you back, one way or another.” The executive officer stood up. “Okay. We head out in five minutes. Julie, pass out those snowshoes.”

Gadsen got up and pulled out four pairs of make-shift snowshoes from under the pile of gear on his side of the tent and passed them out.

“Sorry about the pack frames,” he apologized, “but I figured sore shoulders were better than tired legs.”

The snowshoes were made from aluminum bracing taken from the Himalaya mountain packs. Gadsen had straightened the frames and bent them into rough circular shapes, then used nylon line for webbing and the rough bootstraps. They were clumsy, but would serve to keep the wearer on top of, rather than floundering knee-deep in, the snow. While Teleman pulled on a pair of insulated boots over two pairs of heavy wool socks and one pair of felt underboots, McPherson and Folsom loaded the gear and sleeping bags into the packs. Then he pulled his dacron parka tighter and zipped it close to his throat, pulling the hood up and tying it tightly. Around his neck went a six-inch flap that snapped in back, covering chin and throat. Folsom handed him a face mask, which he snapped to the throat flap and along the rim of the hood.

“I feel like a man from Mars,” he muttered through the muffling fabric. The others looked much the same.

“The very best Arctic gear the U.S. Navy has, Major.” McPherson laughed. “Once we get outside, you’ll wonder why the damned clothing couldn’t be warmer. Me, I intend to write a letter to Naval Supplies when I get back, telling them just what I think of this stuff.”

Folsom looked Teleman over carefully. “How do you feel now?”

“To he truthful, pretty weak. But I think I can make it.” Folsom undid a pocket flap on his pack and pulled out an aluminum tube. “Try a couple of these, Benzedrine. They’ll pick you up.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’ll wait awhile.” Teleman wondered if Folsom had any idea what effect that Benzedrine would have on him. “No sense exhausting myself too early.” Folsom nodded. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He turned and quickly looked over the other two. “All right, let’s move out.”

They broke camp quickly, each man carrying a carbine, canteen, and thirty-pound pack, with the exception of Teleman. He insisted that he carry at least his own carbine and the tent. Reluctantly, McPherson gave it to him. The tent folded into a compact package weighing less than ten pounds, but even so McPherson knew that in his weakened condition the extra ten pounds would soon begin to weigh on Teleman like ten thousand.

Folsom took the lead. Head down, and with the queer shuffling gait that snowshoes force, he struck out through the scrub forest toward the cliffs at a steep diagonal. The snow was deep and the wind whistling through the trees swept at them from every direction, dumping snow from the laden branches onto the four men trudging below. Folsom led them around the deepest drifts, sticking to the open areas as much as possible so that the drifting snow would thoroughly cover their tracks.

It took them an hour to walk out of the trees and reach the cliffs. An hour of tense shuffling on the round snowshoes that cramped muscles unknown to Teleman until then. The width of the snowshoes forced him to walk with his legs farther apart than he was used to, and shortly the muscles on the inside of his thighs were screaming for relief. And the dense underbrush made the walking that much harder. Bushes, half hidden in the snow, caught at the rims and webbing of the shoes. Within the first hour Teleman had fallen twice.

As soon as they stepped from the tree line, the full force of the wind caught them squarely. Snow, swirled up into a ground blizzard, stung at their eyes and any exposed skin surface, finding its way inside snow masks, around the elastic wrist and ankle bands and between hood and parkas with an insidiousness that was almost human. It had been Folsom’s intention to strike west along the rim of the cliffs as long as they lasted, but the ground blizzard, whirled into a fog of ice crystals, made travel along the cliff tops too hazardous. It would have been very easy to walk over the edge before realizing it. McPherson led them back away from the cliffs for fifty yards and, bent into the rising wind, they moved parallel to the line of cliffs, using their meager lee for what shelter that could provide from the gale-force wind.

Within the second hour the wind rose to what Folsom judged was fifty miles an hour. It had also backed several points until it was blowing from almost due north. The wind carried the scent of the icy wastes from the Great Barrier, less than two hundred miles north, bringing with it the same fierce temperatures and flying. ice spicules that scoured the ice of the polar cap into tortured shapes. Folsom traveled now with the compass constantly in his hand, fighting to keep them on a course leading generally westward. But the proximity of the north magnetic pole made it all but useless for more than general direction keeping. As the wind increased, so did the labor involved in walking. The snow had drifted to three and four feet deep in some places, and where it hadn’t drifted at all it stood at least two feet deep. The snowshoes were of some help in keeping them above the crust, but the extra work of adjusting their gait to the peculiarities of the webbed shoes made Folsom wonder if they were not just trading one exhaustion for another. The only thing that seemed to be in their favor was that the top of the cliffs was fairly level, sloping gently downhill to the south. Folsom was under no illusions that the Russians would stop to wait out the storm. They would assume that their quarry was also taking every advantage the storm offered. Once they found the damaged lifeboat but no sign of a camp, it would not take them long to conclude that they were heading for the Norwegian naval base. The only hope the Russians would then have would be to cut them off before they gained the naval installation. And Folsom knew damned well that, if they did call for help, either the submarine or Soviet aircraft would arrive in quick order to shell the hell out of them. With these thoughts to keep him company, Folsom grimly forced them on through the Arctic desert.

For Teleman the hours passed endlessly in a haze of pain as tired muscles and joints protested every movement. The cold was more than insidious. In his weakened condition it was waiting to kill him if just once he let down his guard. His only hope was to keep moving, forcing his body to make optimum use of the slender reserves twenty-four hours of sleep had rebuilt. What would happen when these reserves were exhausted he knew very well. At one time Teleman had voraciously read everything he could find on Arctic and Antarctic exploration. He knew, for instance, that in spite of the tremendous will to live that had infected Scott and his crew in the Antarctic, it had been impossible for them to travel that last eleven miles to the supply cache that had literally meant life or death. And now he understood why. He was fast reaching that point where it becomes impossible for the body to put out that last ounce of strength, that last bit of will that forces dying muscles to one more movement. The intense cold of the Arctic activated the body’s main defense system against cold, involuntary shivering, but it also killed after a few hours. Shivering is an involuntary or autonomous muscle movement that cannot be controlled consciously. And it takes energy to shiver, and a prolonged bout at last saps all reserves. Then the body dies because there is simply no more heat to power the machine.

Teleman was shivering, shivering violently. He had never been so cold in his life. And in spite of the Arctic clothing and the heavy parka, the cold cut as if they were merely tissue. The first touches of frost had long since begun to reach through the insulated soles of his boots. By now, after four hours of walking, his feet were completely numb. He hated to think of what was going to happen when his feet and hands began to thaw… if they ever did.

From then on he stumbled constantly, half supported by the giant McPherson, whose strength seemed endless. Through the snow mask Teleman could feel the skin of his face grow numb, then contract in the cold as if it were trying to pull his skull apart. Feebly he rubbed his cheeks and nose with gloved hands, and the pain of even this faint bit of returning circulation was fantastic.

As they traveled farther across the rough crags of the rear cliff tops, clambering over rock outcroppings to slide painfully down the snow-and ice-slick far sides, Teleman marveled, with the part of his mind that was still conscious, at the strength that McPherson, was exhibiting. Even now as Folsom and Gadsen were beginning to slow, their movements becoming more and more unsteady as they fought against the exhausting wind and cold, McPherson still half carried him, still showed no signs of weariness.

After the sixth hour Folsom began to call five-minute halts every half hour or so, but after the morning and the brief brightening of the five to ten minutes of clouded sunlight at noon, they rested standing. No one dared sit or lie as the cold deepened and their exhaustion grew. Once down, they knew they would never be able to get up again. Finally even McPherson dared not rest for more than a few moments. By late afternoon they had entered another branch of the forest, this one clutching the coast. The pounding of the surf was violent in the almost still crystal air. The wind had suddenly died away to a light breeze and the continuing heavy snowfall did little to muffle the crash of waves against unyielding stone. The trees, stunted and twisted by years of storm, were widely spaced and unchoked with the undergrowth that had marked the inland forest. But the trees, forced to grow lower, made up for the lack of brush with low-hanging branches pregnant with fresh snow. At 1600 that afternoon the wind had stopped completely. The tired party of four men came to a stop. For the last hour Teleman had been traveling in a semi-daze, barely conscious. But now even he was revived momentarily. Folsom peeled back his face mask and hood and the others followed suit. He turned his head in a slow circle, searching for any trace of breeze. The air was silent, barely moving. The intense cold seemed even more pressing now in spite of a lack of wind to stir it across their exposed faces. The wind-scattered trees of the stunted forest were immobile, drooping even lower with the steadily accumulating snow.

The small party began to stumble forward again, reeling under the load of their weariness and the heavy, depressing atmosphere that had descended with the cessation of the wind. Even McPherson was growing exhausted. His gait grew less and less steady. Teleman exerted a tremendous effort and managed to walk upright by himself for a few moments before the snowshoes caused him to stumble. From then on each of the three sailors took turns supporting him.

A muffled crack sounded somewhere behind them. Instantly they were on the ground, searching for cover in the meager waste. For long moments they lay, all thoughts of their weariness forgotten. Folsom shifted his carbine and peered over the barrel, trying to penetrate the snow-filled landscape, then after a moment he got shakily to his feet, laughing softly.

“Come on you deadbeats. Up and at ’em.” He helped Teleman up as another sharp rifle report was beard.

“Trees,” he explained shortly. “The cold is beginning to crack the damned trees.” By 1800 they reached the edge of the tundra. The jut of the coast pulled away to the north at this point, heading into a region of higher ground which the line of cliffs rode in lazy undulations of crags and clefts. McPherson edged out into the beginning of the tundra plain and knelt to brush the accumulated snow from the frozen dirt and rotting vegetation that overlay the hard surface of never-melting ice. After a few moments he motioned the others out.

Folsom; Gadsen, and Teleman followed him out to where he was staring at the darkness that obscured the way ahead. Behind them a three-quarter moon was beginning to break through the rack of clouds, its pale gold light lending a warm tint to the ghostly, wasted landscape. Teleman reversed his carbine and sank to his knees, leaning on the gun for support. He had been profoundly grateful when the wind had died; at these temperatures snow froze into solid crystals of ice, tiny particles that, whipped by the wind, worked their way between snow mask and hood and glove and cuff. After hours of exposure Teleman felt as if his wrists and neck were ringed by crusts of burning ice. His gratitude had been short-lived, however. As the wind had died the cold had deepened, until now he guessed it was close to forty below zero.

Folsom dropped down beside him. “How are you feeling?” When Teleman, too tired to speak, only nodded, he grinned in sympathy. “We’ve covered about thirteen miles so far. I think it’s going to be a little easier from here on in. The map shows this tundra stretching almost to the base. At least we can get rid of these damnable snowshoes.”

Teleman nodded again, barely aware of what Folsom said. His mind was wrapped in a warm haze that not even the bitter cold of the Arctic could penetrate. Folsom’s words meant nothing to him… he was suspended in a sort of limbo through which he floated not caring what happened to him. But when Folsom’s arms went under his to help him to his feet, the haze failed and he was suddenly back in the hell of cold and wilderness. Gadsen cut the thongs that held the snowshoes on, then *collected the four pair and tied them onto his pack. He said nothing and neither did the others. Each man was conserving every last bit of energy he possessed with all the avidity of a miser. Each knew that to expend even the tiniest fraction could mean the difference between reaching the base and freezing to death within sight of it.

The four men struggled on, pushing as far into the tundra as possible before stopping for the night. Teleman continued to move mechanically in the semi-daze that had overtaken him earlier, but the rest had refreshed him somewhat and he was now able to stumble forward by himself. He had long ceased to feel the cold as such, to feel it as anything but an iron pain clamped down upon his entire body. His heart, he was dimly aware, was beating at the same trip-hammer rate that had alarmed him during the final moments of flight. Every movement was sluggish in the extreme, and he no longer thought about the damage being done to his body by the impossible stress being placed on it by the intense cold and the bone-breaking task of hiking twenty-five miles through subzero cold. He longed for the warm hospital bed and the intensive care that normally followed each flight. Instead he moved in a world of his own, in which the glimmering moon and the pale stars beginning to show as the clouds were slowly torn to pieces by the aftermath of the storm were a blur overhead. He had even stopped concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other. His subconscious had now taken over the task of moving his legs in proper rotation. He was only hours from death and he no longer cared.