North Cape

CHAPTER 19

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. She 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 able 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?

Would he guess at the power of the magnum charges? Could he, Teleman, cover him in time to prevent an outcry that would alert the others? Too many questions, too damn many, but then, it was their only chance.

Teleman settled himself as if falling asleep and cracked his eyelids only far enough to watch the guard. Obviously the man was as weary as they. Although he still sat upright, the rifle now rested across his lap and his eyes were half closed. Even so, Teleman could see that they glanced steadily around the tent, watching, aware of every move being made.

Teleman felt the deep gulfs of sleep tugging at him again. The tent had warmed considerably from the heat of, packed bodies and the small stove. The folded sleeping bag made an excessively comfortable bed, and he had to continue the portrayal of the exhausted pilot in order not to arouse their suspicions. Teleman knew that it was now a race to see if the Russian would relax his vigil before he, himself, fell asleep. Five minutes passed, then ten minutes. Teleman concentrated so hard on staying awake that his eyes watered, blurring his vision. He turned his head ever so slightly to the left and felt a sharp disappointment. Folsom would be of no immediate help. Although he had not been tied, he was sound asleep, and Teleman was certain that it would take something akin to the last trumpet to wake him.

But he was wrong. Folsom groaned and started to turn over. In the process he half sat up and so was facing directly across the tent from the guard. Immediately the Russian came to his knees, raising the rifle, pointing it directly at Folsom. This was the opening that Teleman had been waiting for.

The guard leaned forward to prod Folsom and his shoulder momentarily obscured his view of Teleman. Quickly, yet carefully, Teleman reached beneath his parka and pulled the revolver from his waistband. Before the guard had settled back, glaring at Folsom, Teleman had dropped his arm back to his side, hiding the pistol under a fold of his parka. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Folsom half sit forward, ruhbing his forehead where the guard’s rifle muzzle had jabbed him. Every second counted now, literally counted, Teleman knew. The five Russians in the front of the tent were still deeply engrossed in their conversation and nearly all had their backs to him. The guard was still watching Folsom. In a moment he would settle back across from Teleman.

Teleman raised his hand and arm until the pistol was lying across his chest, muzzle pointing directly at the Russian’s heart. The guard, rifle still aiming at Folsom, turned and Teleman watched with satisfaction as his face took on a comical look of surprise. Very carefully Teleman pointed with his left hand, motioning for the guard to keep silent. Then he kicked Folsom.

For a minute Folsom did not respond, and Teleman felt sweat break out on his forehead in fear that the executive officer had fallen asleep again. He did not dare take his eyes off the guard, who any moment now would recover from his surprise. Teleman motioned savagely for him to raise the rifle toward the tent roof and kicked Folsom squarely in the knee. This time he jumped.

The entire scenario unfolded as a slow-motion dream. Each action was drawn out to a nervous breaking point and Teleman was almost convinced that the Russian would blur into motion and pluck the pistol from his unresponsive fingers. Then Folsom was moving out of the line of the muzzle and extracting the rifle from the dazed guard. Folsom glanced at Teleman from his kneeling position and shook his head in wonderment. Feeling very aged and decrepit, Teleman got to his knees, then both Teleman and Folsom faced the five Russians in the front of the tent.

“The first one who makes the slightest move gets shot,” Folsom intoned solemnly. They stiffened as one man and swung around. The same shock suffused the five faces as had colored the face of the guard. Finally the one who spoke English managed to stammer out a confused question. His answer was the roar of the heavy military rifle tearing a hole in the tent flap. Folsom said nothing more, merely glared over the rifle barrel, his meaning intently clear in the acrid cordite fumes filling the tent. Satisfied that they were thoroughly cowed, Teleman crawled around behind Folsom and went to work on the lengths of nylon cord binding Gadsen and McPherson.

“All right; if you are all ready let’s move out.” Folsom finished a quick survey of the tent and motioned toward the tent flap. He turned once and grinned back at the miserable and bound Soviet troopers as Teleman, Gadsen, and McPherson, shouldering a large bundle, pushed past him and out into the cold. “Have fun boys. We’ll send the Norwegians back for you. Strasvechil.”

“Oh… that means ‘Hello,’ Pete,” Gadsen chortled.

“Oh, yeah… how ’bout that?”

Still grinning, he followed the others out and they turned southwesterly. The Russians had been stripped of their clothes down to long underwear and socks. Their clothes were in the bundle McPherson was carrying. Without clothes, these six Soviet troopers would he unable to chase them farther. Five minutes exposure in the bitter, subzero weather would kill them if they tried. Instead, they were left with an ample supply of fuel, at least enough to last until the Norwegians or their own comrades could rescue them from their predicament.

The four men, heightened with the excitement, almost, but not quite looked forward to the remaining miles of the trek across the tundra and down through the edging cliffs that would bring them to the Norwegian naval base. Even the fact that Folsom had added an extra three miles to the trek to take them far south of the anticipated second party did little to dim their spirits. In a matter of five or six hours at most they would be trudging into the safe hands of the Norwegians. The warmth of that reception they would worry about when the time came. The worst that could happen would be internment—

preferable under any conditions to the MVD cellars in Murmansk. Although still exhausted by the three days and more of exposure to. the Arctic storm, the several hours of forced rest had done much to revive them. Teleman was completely clear-headed, though still experiencing brief periods of dizziness and disorientation from the remaining drug residues. Even so, he was confident that he would make it through. What shape he would be in he did not know, or even much care any more. Just to make it through, that would be enough now. Folsom set an easy yet steady pace. The four men moved along under the brightening aurora borealis. They were strung out in a line one hundred yards long, Folsom leading off, Gadsen second, followed by Teleman and McPherson, with his bundle of clothing, acting as rear guard.

McPherson, as he strode along carefully watching Teleman, smiled to himself every once in a while, recalling the scene in the tent. The first he remembered after falling asleep in the overheated tent was Teleman sawing away at his, McPherson’s, bonds with the guard’ s knife. It had taken him several moments to awaken enough to realize what was happening. The Russian troopers had been lined up in front of the tent and ordered to lean precariously forward with legs and arms spread and hands on the tent wall, which provided a not-too-firm support. Folsom had watched every move with the heavy Russian army rifle cocked and ready as the Russians stripped under his watchful eye. Gadsen, cradling a Russian submachine gun, had joined him, making pointed comments in Polish, which some of the Russians understood.

McPherson shook his head. First he runs away and manages to get us all captured because we were so intent on trying to bring him around that the Russians just walked up on us, then he pulls a pistol and we all walk away.

“Hey, Major,” he yelled ahead to the stiff figure. Teleman turned his head to glance at the burly sailor.

“Hey, Major, when you get tired of this airplane nonsense, I’ll get you into the SEALS—if you promise to lay off the acid!”

It was close to four hours of very nearly steady travel before the party reached the first indications of the cliffs leading down to the Norwegian base, still two miles distant around the headland. The going had been both easier and faster than they had expected. So far they had seen no sign of the supposed pursuing forces and Folsom had about decided that any threat of a third party had been pure imagination. The Soviets could not carry unlimited manpower aboard the submarine. In any event they had swung nearly three miles south of their former line of march and so had probably avoided them. Folsom called a halt and hunkered down to wait while each man trudged up. During the long march the line had gradually lengthened until Teleman and. McPherson were half a mile behind. Teleman was still walking under his own steam, but the set, agonized look on his face was an eloquent indication of his physical condition. McPherson had discarded the bundle of winter clothes three miles south and west of the tent, pitching them behind one of the hummocks of tundra grass growing in the otherwise desolate plain of snow and ice.

While he waited, Folsom scanned the area ahead with the binoculars, knowing that the roughest part of the journey still lay ahead. Seen through the field glasses, the tundra in front of them appeared little different from what lay behind unless one noted the low ridges and hummocks that marked the edge of the coastal cliffs. How high, and how rugged they would be to negotiate, he had no idea. He only hoped that they would not prove impassable. The edge of the cliffs were, he judged, now less than a mile ahead. He swept the glasses to the north, but the terrain was bare of any movement or sign of life. As the others drifted up he hunkered down on his heels and waited. The continuous walking through the savage, subzero cold was fast reducing them to walking ghosts. The euphoria that had infused them on leaving the tent had long since evaporated during the gruelling hike. Folsom knew that the stick figures in their flapping Arctic gear clustering around him were close to the very last extreme of physical effort. If any of them felt the way he did… and Teleman for one was in even worse condition… Briefly he described the route ahead. All knew that the only information about the cliffs came from the topographical map he carried in his pocket. How reliable it was, they did not know. Guriously enough, their lives might depend in the next few hours on some remote German cartographer of the defunct Third Reich Vermacht The map had originally been drawn for the Nazi Occupation forces in Norway. Teleman groaned and got to his feet, swinging his arms. “Hell man, I don’t care how hard it’s going to be, let’s just get it over with. If I spend much more time in the great outdoors, all you’ll have left to carry back will be a solid block of ice.” Folsom nodded and stood up. “Okay with me too. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The small party struck out toward the fringing hummocks. After a few hundred yards the hummocks began to turn into slab-sided hills as they emerged in the deceptive light. Shortly the party had reached the base of the first line of hills and began the steep climb to the top. Before they had gained half the distance Folsom ordered a halt while they tied themselves in line with a length of nylon rope. In their weakened condition a misstep resulting in a fall would take the individual all the way back down. And they did not have strength to waste reclimbing hills. It took the four men twenty minutes of climbing to reach the gently rolling crest, less than four hundred feet above the level of the plain. Folsom untied the rope from his waist and walked forward to where the downward slope began and-pulled the field glasses from beneath his parka.

Standing on the crest of the hill, he could make out the sheen of the fjord waters below. Between the hill on which he stood and the final line of cliffs leading down to the fjord were a series of rugged and broken hillocks and cols of bare rock, resembling the snaggle-toothed mouth of some mythical Scandinavian giant wrenched up from the fringing rock.

Disappointment crashed down on Folsom. They would have at least another hour of rugged climbing before they could reach the fjord. And then there still remained the hike to the Norwegian naval base, out of sight around a headland a mile or so north. So damn close… so damn close…

Folsom turned away from the depressing scene and trudged back to where the others waited and sank down beside them.

“There’s a stiff climb ahead,” he said bitterly. “Another hour of climbing before we hit the cliffs.” He picked up his, carbine and fiddled with the stock. After a moment of silence, McPherson stood up and took the glasses to search the horizon to the east and north. The four-hundred-foot height of the. hill gave him a wide scope of vision. hi the uncertain light he almost thought he had spotted their tent far to the north and east, but when he tried to find it again, he failed. Finally he swung around restlessly and went back to the far side of the hill. The spectral figures of Folsom, Teleman, and Gadsen joined °him as he went past.

Folsom accepted the glasses again and, after another moment’s hesitation, trudged to the rim of the hogback and lay down full length in the snow. The expanse of frosted rock stretched away below him, resembling the familiar waves of the Arctic storm, each crest of rock capped with a dusting of snow. He rewarmed the eyepieces in his hands. Directly below, the hillside sloped away at a gentle angle until it met a sharp drop of some forty or so feet to a shelf of granite, a man’s height below that. From there the slope was gentle for a half mile until it rose abruptly to a sheer rock wall that, from this distance anyway, offered little hope of hand-or footholds. He shifted slowly south, Ending-nothing that would indicate an easier way, then north. After several minutes he located a shelf that seemed to have been slashed out of the rock wall, forming a small pass that cut through at mid-height. From what he could see of the other side, there were no impassable obstacles.

He rolled over and sat up. “I think maybe there is a way to at least get through that rock wall down there.”

Teleman nodded painfully and shifted the burden of the Russian carbine he had been carrying since leaving the tent. So far he had successfully resisted McPherson’s attempts to exchange it for his own lighter AR-18. Teleman shifted the carbine on its sling around his neck and shoulder and nodded. “After having come so far, it would be a shame to quit now.”

McPherson nodded.

“I guess that makes it unanimous then,” Gadsen said. “Let’s move out.” Once again Folsom watched the motley crew of scarecrows assemble and rope themselves together. On the verge of exhaustion, as he himself was, he marveled at the deep reserves in Teleman that enabled the man to go on.

They headed down the slope with the shuffling gait of tired men, each fighting to retain his foothold in the hard-packed snow of the windward side. At the foot of the hogback they halted while McPherson hauled a longer rope out of his pack and fastened one end into fixed loop.

“You first, Commander?”

Folsom nodded and slipped the noose over his head and down under his shoulders. He backed off a ways and tested the firmness of the knot by pulling against McPherson, then swung carefully over the edge of the steep slope and half slid, half climbed down until he was just above the vertical drop to the shelf. He glanced up at McPherson and waved one hand for slack and disappeared abruptly over the edge. He reappeared a moment later, standing on the ledge and slipped the noose off. McPherson pulled it up and motioned Gadsen to go next. Gadsen followed Folsom down, and, in minutes, McPherson was hauling it up for Teleman.

“Feel up to it, Major?”

“There’s only one way down…”

“Yeah, there is at that. Look, just take it easy. I’ll pay out the rope. You just hang on for the ride. The commander will help you down that last bit.” Teleman nodded. “How are you going to get down?”

“Just tell the others to stand clear. I’ll be right behind you.” He grinned. Teleman smiled back at him. “Thanks for your help, Beau. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.”

Teleman grasped his arm, then started down the slope. A few feet away he slipped, and McPherson hauled back on the rope to keep him from tumbling. The stretch with Teleman was the hardest of all for McPherson, who had to maintain a steady tension of the line to keep him from going over the edge of the drop-off. His strength, as prodigious as it was, was nearly exhausted by the past days’ efforts. Teleman, all but dangling on the end of the rope, realized this and scrabbled hard with his boots for a foothold in the wind-packed snow. Finally he managed to kick through the crust and dig the toe of a boot in and bring himself to a halt. Teleman waved weakly up to McPherson to wait and gratefully felt the cutting edge of the rope slack off. He knew that both of them needed a moment’s rest.

With his left boot he kicked a second toehold in the snow and lowered himself the length of his drawn-up knee and kicked a third hole with the right boot. Then he rested a moment and peered over his shoulder to see how near the drop-off was. Still twenty feet or so to go. Teleman lowered himself again and clutched at the first toehold with his gloved hand. Now he was able to work his way down carefully, saving McPherson the effort of fending his 172-pound weight. Shortly he felt empty space beneath his boot, then a moment later Gadsen had reached up and caught his foot. The rope slacked enough to give him room and he waved Gadsen away and dropped the last eight feet into the banked snow at the foot of the wall. The rope followed him down like a snake and he got shakily to his feet and backed away from the wall, motioning Gadsen and Folsom to do the same.

“The man says watch out…”

At the same time he caught sight of McPherson scrabbling down the slope on his seat, legs extended to break his speed, an idiot grin affixed to his face. He slowed slightly above the drop-off, then shot over to land relaxed in the trained parachutist’s roll, legs bent and a roll-over onto the left hip. McPherson got to his feet, brushing away the snow, still grinning.

“Most fun I’ve had since I started this cruise.”

“Crazy idiot, you could have busted your neck in three places.” Folsom grinned and waved at the other two. “Come on, let’s tackle the next phase of this endless jaunt.” The next mile was an easy slope downhill leading to what Folsom had optimistically termed the pass through the rock wall that now stretched above them. Close-up the wall did not appear as formidable as it had through the glasses, but still the pass offered an easier and less strenuous climb.

The faint touches of wind that had begun to spring up again on the plain were stronger among the rock formations. The weirdness of the tiny valley was accentuated by the aurora borealis, which, at the same time, made seeing so difficult that Folsom had been forced to an easier pace than he would otherwise have chosen. Even so, they had covered the mile to the pass quickly enough. The pass was a natural path leading up, twisting through the rock until it disappeared around a curve several hundred feet away. For a moment Folsom hesitated to start forward. The narrow way was an ideal ambush site. Ridiculous, he thought, there was no way in the world that the Russians could have selected this particular place to lie in wait…. Folsom snorted and started the climb.