North Cape

CHAPTER 21

A sick feeling of despair settled over Folsom as Gadsen struggled with the radio to raise the ship. Each time he flicked the switch over to receive, a steady stream of hissing poured from the speaker.

“Damn it all, it’s no use,” Gadsen said bitterly. “The aurora is blanking everything out.” The problem that had been nagging at Folsom throughout the night and into the early morning hours now burst upon him. It had been the intensity of the northern lights, the aurora borealis. The stream of electrons pouring into the magnetic field of the earth from the sun was probably causing a world-wide disruption of radio transmission — at least for all communications depending upon ionospiheric bounce. For all practical purposes, under the onslaught of the solar storm, there was no ionosphere right now.

“Any chance of getting through at all?”

Gadsen settled his carbine on his shoulder, slung the radio set around his neck, and began to play with the transmit switch, flicking it back and forth in a code pattern. “Maybe we can stir up some interest in a code,” he muttered.

The jerky gait over the rocky beach of the fjord did, not help Gadsen any and twice he stumbled as he concentrated c-n the radio. After a few minutes he switched to receive.

“Nothing,” he said over the hiss of static. “Damned thing is useless for now.” Darkness was falling swiftly now. Only a few brief glimpses of light were visible over the top of the eastern wall. Folsom glanced back and saw Teleman stumbling along, half carried by McPherson.

There was nothing yet visible of the pursuing Russians and they had almost reached the headland. They had gained at least five hundred yards, but Folsom knew that, as soon as the Russians reached the beach, they would come on with twice the speed his people were able to make.

Grimly he concentrated on reaching the mass of rock that would furnish them a small measure of cover, perhaps enough for the last mile to the Norwegian naval base. He only hoped to God that flares would attract attention in time for the Norwegians to get a boat across the fjord to pick them up. Maybe, just maybe, the Russians would not pass the headlands. But he doubted it. With._ the wind blowing straight down the fjord they could hold a major gun battle, complete with artillery, within sight of the Norwegians and not he heard. Again he looked back the way they had come and this time saw that Teleman had fallen and McPherson was wearily trying to get him up.

“Go on, Julie… the headland…”

Folsom ran back to where Teleman was still on the ground. As he came up, McPherson had stooped down and was trying to lift him in a shoulder carry. But Mac had pushed himself too far. Even this last effort was too much for the giant reserve of strength he had inherited from his Scotch ancestry.

Folsom slid to a stop, panting too heavily to speak: Teleman opened his eyes and saw Folsom bending over him.

“Seem’s I see you from… this position… quite a… bit…” Folsom grinned in spite of himself and rummaged in the pocket of the parka and came up with the aluminum tube of Benzedrine tablets.

Teleman stared at them, then nodded. “Yeah.

Folsom willed his shaking hands steady as he uncapped the tube and poured out two tablets each for Teleman, McPherson, and himself. Mac unstoppered his canteen and they choked the pills down.

Teleman sank back down. “You may deliver a dead pilot, but at least you’ll deliver a pilot,” he whispered.

Folsom smiled, feeling very small and weak in the face of the endurance and courage the man on the ground in front of him had shown. “You’ll be alive, or none of us will be.” Mac got ponderously to his feet and bent and helped Teleman up. Already, in their weakened condition, they were beginning to feel the effects of the pills. To Teleman the vile taste of the half-chewed capsules was the first real indication of returning sensation he had felt in hours of trudging through the subzero cold. The taste of the capsules also increased his thirst, but as the effects of the pills heightened the taste was soon forgotten.

As his mind cleared he felt a measure of strength returning. The misty edge of unconsciousness began to recede somewhat and, like the others, he began to run in a jerky half trot. Shortly, as they approached the mass of rock that marked the headland, he lost all sense of weariness. He knew it would not last long. His only hope was to hang on until he could obtain medical care, before his heart burst from the overload. He put aside all thoughts of what might happen and concentrated on moving ahead as fast as possible while he could.

As they caught up with Gadsen, Folsom handed him two pills and without a word they trotted on.

They passed the headlands and came out onto a long, straight stretch that disappeared around a sharp curve in the fjord, three miles north. Folsom cursed violently and yanked the map out. The beach to the headland was accurately marked, but the area beyond showed no long stretch of beach, merely a short bend to the east and then the naval base on the western side of the fjord. Folsom threw his head back and breathed deeply through his mouth, fighting to control a futile anger. The damnable chart had been wrong, wrong all across the island. This time it was so wrong it would kill them. They could never clear the three miles of beach before the Russians overtook them. They did not have the strength. Goddamn it all, he swore savagely to himself, we could have stayed in the tent and gone peacefully back to Murmansk and saved all this trouble. The effects of the Benzedrine tablets still held them, but Gadsen, Teleman, and McPherson stood in a stupefied circle around Folsom waiting for his decision. He recalled what he had told Teleman only minutes before — “You’ll be alive, or none of us will be.”

“Come on. Let’s go.”

Darkness had fallen completely and their old comrade the aurora borealis was again triumphant in the night sky to light their way. They had covered nearly a mile when the sound of a rolling explosion reached them. As one man, they came to a halt, ears straining forward. No other sound came, merely the echoes of the boom. Folsom did not wait. He grabbed the VERY pistol and fired a flare straight up. Then they broke into a run. Folsom fired a second and a third in their recognition signal. It could have been the Russian submarine he knew, and then again it could have been the Norwegians, or even the RM. In any event, it no longer mattered. Twice more, at four-minute intervals, Folsom fired flares in patterns, and each time, as they ran, their eyes fastened on the line of cliffs to the north. On the fifth volley an answering pattern ascended into the night sky, low over the cliffs, two short and one long intervals. If they had had the breath, they would have cheered. Instead, they ran even faster, though the effects of the Benzedrine tablets were beginning to wear off.

Ten minutes later the first bullets kicked up sand and pebbles beneath their feet. Without breaking stride, Gadsen swung the radio up and frantically began to call their ID in the hope that, somehow, he could punch through.

“Down,” Folsom yelled.

The open beach offered no shelter of any kind. Their only hope now was to hold the Russians at a distance where their bodies, lying prone, would offer an almost impossible target. McPherson hit the ground in a firing position, the sling of his carbine already wrapped around his forearm in manual-approved fashion. Carefully he selected his targets and snapped off shots. The distance was too far for rapid fire; it would only waste the remaining ammunition already pretty well exhausted by the two previous actions. Folsom and Teleman followed suit, and at least had the satisfaction of seeing the approaching Russians drop to the beach, although whether from strikes or for cover they had no way of telling.

Folsom rolled half over, “Any luck with that damned radio?”

“Nothing.”

He reached under his parka and extracted the flare pistol. He had two cartridges left. Just as he brought the pistol into firing position, Gadsen’s voice screamed excitedly:

“I got ’em, for a moment, Commander.”

“Fox Baker, read you loud… under fire… do you need, support?” Gadsen twirled the gain to maximum, and there, on the rock-strewn beach of a deserted Norwegian fjord, Folsom, Teleman, McPherson, and Gadsen heard the most beautiful sound of their lives to date — the flat tones of the ship’s radio operator.

“…flare… pinpoint… your…” The rest was lost in the roar of static. Seconds later Folsom fired the next-to-last flare and all three watched as the thin trail of red formed the stalk of a blossoming rose. As it faded Folsom fired the last for good measure.

“Now, run like hell,” he roared.

The four men ran as they had never run before. They pounded down the rocky beach, skirting along the water’s edge where the footing was firm. The breath whistled in their lungs as they ran, ran with the desperation of life itself. Behind them the Russians were running also, no longer firing, but running to overtake them. In spite of efforts that came with an impetus from their innermost beings, the Americans were losing ground. The pursuing Russians, fresher by many days of sleep, were less than two hundred yards behind when the first salvo of rockets screamed in to explode across the beach and out into the fjord. Almost immediately a second salvo followed twenty yards to the rear of the first, and then a third and fourth salvo, each moving back on the Russian troops, who broke and ran for the cover of the cliffs. It seemed almost as if the fire control officer on board the RFK could see his target. A rain, a curtain of fire exploded behind them, the concussions hammering at their bodies while the air filled with the continual roar of exploding missiles.

They ran on, Teleman straining every last ounce of energy he possessed to keep up. Then, as suddenly as it began, the, fire died away, and behind them they could see the stick figures of the Russians up and running after them again. The rock walls of the cliffs had furnished sufficient protection from the missile. fire and they came on unharmed. Teleman suddenly became aware that bullets were kicking up the beach around them again. He flattened, threw a glance over his shoulder, but Gadsen was past and running back before he could stop him. Teleman saw Julie’s slight figure go to one knee, heard the sharp crack as he began firing rapidly. The lead figure screamed, threw up his hands, and tumbled headlong. Bullets smacked around Gadsen with curious popping noises, but he continued to fire coolly, the crack, crack, crack of his AR 18 abnormally loud in the cold air. Folsom yelled at Teleman to run and himself, turned, his rifle blazing toward the Russians. Teleman heard the faint plat of the bullet that struck Gadsen and knocked him backward across the beach.

As if at a great distance, he heard someone ask if Gadsen was dead and realized that it was his own voice. Folsom screamed at him, but he saw from the angular position of Julie’s body, where it lay at the water’s edge, that he was dead. Nothing exploded inside his brain, no-galvanizing fury flung him at the Russians. Instead a cold fury at the entire foolish system that was responsible for this man’s death took hold of him. He cocked the Russian submachine gun, he was carrying and walked back down the beach, away from Julie’s body. The submachine gun kicked in his hands and he saw the line of Russians hesitate, then scatter to the right and left. He tripped over a rock and fell headlong. He put his head down on the cold snow and knew that he would never run another step from where he lay. His frustration came out a harsh scream. Folsom and McPherson dropped down beside him and began firing at the zigzagging figures that, in spite of the barrage, seemed to pass through untouched. McPherson emptied a clip at the approaching Russians and rammed a new one home. Carefully he picked his targets as Folsom kept up a continual line of fire to keep the approaching soldiers off balance. McPherson sighted carefully and fired and watched as the soldier in his sights disappeared, his rifle flying from his hands. Then a bullet struck him in the cheek and tore through his shoulder.

Without thinking, Teleman threw away his empty Russian submachine gun and scrabbled for McPherson’s carbine. He fired twelve shots, closely spaced, but very carefully, and thought he hit one.

The answering fire was striking ever closer now. The Russians were less than a hundred yards away and still they came on, four left, crouching low and running swiftly forward, firing as they came. These were no sailors, Folsom realized, but trained soldiers, probably marines.

A bullet kicked stone chips and snow in Teleman’s face, forcing him to jerk his head away. He rubbed viciously at his eyes to clear them and swung back, but the Russians had turned and were running back to the south. Teleman, stunned, rolled to see Folsom staring after the Russians. Then they heard the heavy, staccato bark of automatic weapons behind them. Both turned to see bluejacketed sailors pouring from a beached whaleboat. Disbelieving, Teleman got to his lames as sailors rushed past them after the fleeing Russians. Then-he — and Folsom began to laugh, both with great tearing gasps that were almost sobs. They were still laughing when the chief petty officer ran up to be confronted with the spectacle of his executive officer alternately laughing and sobbing, his arms around a gaunt scarecrow of a man with a bandaged head.