North Cape (22 page)

Approximately twenty minutes went by before the radar operator called Larkin's attention to the radar scope again and interpreted the puzzIe of dots in the growing pattern on the screen.

It looks like they are surfacing, sir. More .of the sail is out -of the water and the decks are coming into view." A few moments later he said, "Now she's heaving to . . . about two miles off the beach, I make it, sir."

"Probably doesn't dare go in any closer. In those seas I don't know as I blame him," Larkin commented.

"Even inside the fjord, she must be rolling through forty degrees. I pity her crew," Bridges murmured over Larkin's shoulder as he _watched the screen. Larkin nodded. "They will have a devil of a time getting a boat off the deck and manned. That's one operation I would like to see. It would do you good as well, Mr. Bridges. Those new-fangled life spheres don't call for much of a knack in launching. Swing her over the side and cut her loose. Couldn't sink one if you tried." '

Bridges made a skeptical noise and Larkin grinned.

"According to the charts, there is a small cove directly in from where the sub is lying," Bridges pointed out. "But there sure isn't any shelter there. It faces north, into the winds."

"Even so, they might get the boat in . . . but, I sure wouldn't want to be in it." On the screen a small shape detached itself from the bulk of the submarine and headed toward the shore. As soon as the boat was away the sub began to submerge. have engine noises, very faintly, sir," said the sonar operator. "At fifty miles?" Larkin asked incredulously.

"Yes, sir. It might be due to the temperature of the water. I've had it happen before, although never this far away from the source."

"I'll be damned. What do they seem to *be doing now?" The sonar operator pressed the phones tightly to his head. "As . . . as near as I can tell ... they have just submerged, probably to periscope depth to watch the lifeboat. They don't seem to be going anywhere."

"Keep a sharp sonar watch. All engines to stop. Switch to silent running." Larkin shifted restlessly in his high seat. "If we can hear them, they just may be able to pick us up as well." The quiet murmuring died throughout the ship as the mechanical gear shut down.

"They might have picked us up already over the noise of their own engines, even though it isn't likely," Bridges said as he. moved

to. Folsom's console and strapped himself in, His hands played quickly over the keys and the various panels came alive. Then he ran a quick status check of the ship and its gear before changing over to monitoring the radar and sonar consoles. Deep in the hull, the main sonar and radar rooms, located at opposite ends of the ship for safety, were also keeping a sharp watch, under the direction of the chief petty officer. Certain isolated points might have escaped the human operators, but nothing that appeared to be out of bounds passed the attention of the giant process computer that overmonitored the entire system.

"Just at periscope depth, sir. They don't seem to be aware of us. I would guess that the changes in the water layers carrying their engine noise is just a fluke. I doubt if it works both ways. And we may lose it anytime," he pointed out. Larkin nodded. "That may be so, but there is no harm in being careful. 'I would guess that they haven't picked us up either. We at least are in international waters. Even so, if they had picked us up they would be getting ready for a fight. In fact, their missiles would probably already be .on the way."

It took the Russian lifeboat over an hour to negotiate the two miles of angry sea to the cove, and once under the lee of the cliffs it disappeared from their radar, lost in the mass of signal noise 'reflecting from the rock. From the radar it was impossible .to tell whether the boat had made it in, and the propeller noises from the tiny engine were completely lost over the fifty-mile distance in spite of the reflecting layers of water that had temporarily expanded the senses of the ship.

Larkin touched the switch to the main radio room. "Put your sweep on the speaker system, please."

A moment later the speakers on the bridge burst into life. Larkin grimaced at a noise that sounded like someone using a cat's tail to play a musical saw. The radio operator was running up and down the bandwidth with the tuner. A small computer unit monitored and controlled the process, hunting until it picked up a definite signal. For three minutes the noise continued until the wearing howl was broken by a loud whistle, then a Russian voice transmitting a series of call letters broke over. This was followed by another voice spewing a choppy flow of Russian. The transmission was over quickly, to be replaced by the normal static of an unused frequency.

Almost at the same time, the radio operator was back on the speaker. "We have it all taped, sir."

"Good, get it off immediately with a top priority rating. I want an answer in five minutes, sooner if possible."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Larkin got up and walked over to the plotting table, swaying with the motion of the ship. He stared down at the map, then picked up the pair of dividers from their holder and began to measure off the distances between Folsom and the Russians. He walked the dividers carefully over the distance and found that he did not like the story they had to tell. Less than twenty-two miles separated the two groups—twenty-two miles that the Russians would not waste any time at all in covering. The only thing in Folsom's favor so far was the fact that the Russians did not know exactly where the ship was. But, even so, in spite of the storm and difficult terrain, the Russians would find them within twentyfour hours. He did not know exactly how many troops had been landed, but he was ready to lay odds that they would split up, one party marching along the top of the cliffs where they could search the coastline below while the other moved inland a mile or so. The beach party could not fail to spot the wrecked lifeboat. Once they had that, it would be only a matter of time until they found the camp.

Larkin turned back to his console and dialed the weather channel, although he already knew what it would say. But then one could always hope. So -it was no surprise when he found that both. the Greenland and Iceland weather stations were still predicting: another thirty-six to forty-eight hours of heavy seas and high winds along the Norwegian coast. They expected the winds to begin dropping in about twenty-four hours, but at sea they would remain strong enough to preclude launching the helicopter.

"Damn, damn," he muttered to himself. Folsom was really in for it now. He returned to the plotting table and bent over the map and with the dividers measured out the distance to the Norwegian Coast Guard Station and then to the NATO base. The distance to the coast guard station was shorter by eight miles, but the route would take them directly into the arms of the Soviets. The only refuge, then, was the Norwegian-manned NATO

base, twenty-six miles from where Folsom had pitched the camp—that or the interior of the Cape area, and Larkin doubted whether the pilot would survive for long there.

"Radio room to bridge, we have the translation."

"Go ahead," Larkin ordered.

"'Shore party calling ST-101, shore party calling ST-101.' This was repeated six times, sir. Then, 'We have landed without injuries. Lifeboat is badly damaged. Will begin search immediately. Radio contact will be re-established hourly on this frequency.' End of message. There was no reply from the ship, sir. They used a standard band, shortrange radio at 120 kc."

"Very good. Establish a continuous monitoring watch as of now. Feed everything you pick up to Virginia, top priority, after running it through the computers for translation. I want Virginia's literal translation as a check."

"Aye, sir."

Larkin turned to Bridges, still seated at Folsom's console. "Well, Mr. Bridges, we are off. Gontact Mr. Folsom and tell him what has happened. Tell him I will call him again at"—

he looked at his watch—"0600 with instructions . . . ah, amend that to suggestions. In the meantime, they are to get all the sleep they can. Also, they are not to call us except in an emergency. No sense in letting their position be pinpointed."

"Aye, sir." Bridges turned to the radio operator as Larkin went below for some badly needed rest.

Teleman came slowly awake to the sound of a hushed voice. For several minutes, still drugged with exhaustion, he lay in the sleeping bag, scarcely aware that he was awake. A darkness, half dispersed by a light source that he could not see, drew a curving line directly above his eyes. For a minute he thought he was back in the aircraft, looking down on the earth from two hundred thousand feet, seeing the bisecting dawn line. The lighted portion of whatever it was above/below him, he could not tell which, was a darkish blue color, the same as the earth from altitude at dawn. The other half was dead black and the bisecting line itself was fuzzy, shading through a spectrum of bluish gray from light to dark.

The voice puzzled him, but as yet he was not able to turn his head, for some perverse reason. Gradually he became aware that he was stripped to the skin and covered with some kind of heavy, heated material. Then he remembered the intense cold, the cold and the wind.

He mustered the will to turn his head. For a moment the scene refused to focus and vertigo gripped him, spinning him end over end. Gradually the picture before him steadied and he slowly began to make out details. The first was the fabric line of a sleeping bag. Beyond, the hunched backs of two other men bending over something hidden by their bodies. Various pieces of gear were stacked around the walls of the tent. The lantern casting the dim light was suspended from the center of the tent, a heavy flashlight, giving off a steady light.

Both men were unaware that he was watching and wondering who they were and where he was. Then in a rush the memories came back as that part of his brain cleared with an almost physical jolt. He remembered the aircraft, the long flight across Asia, the desperate running from the Russian interceptors, the ejection over the North Cape. The last thing he remembered was a. hissing flare landing nearby. As the fuzziness evaporated, Teleman began to realize that he had been picked up by somebody. But Russians, Americans, or Norwegians? He turned his head again to see the man whose back was nearest him nod two or three times, then reach out to part the tent flaps. Immediately a gust of wind danced in, bringing whirling snow with it.

"As far as we know right now, they sent only one boatload, maybe twenty men in the landing party." The voice that came over the radio was almost lost in the sound of the wind battering the tent.

"Any idea how long it will take them to get here?" Teleman felt a flood of relief pour through him. At least they spoke English. They must have come from the rendezvous ship, he thought.

The tiny radio voice came again. "The MTI radar shows the coastal cliffs in that area as quite low and sloping back into what the map indicates as a level plain. I don't see them waiting until the 'storm lets up. They are east of you by twenty-two miles."

"Well, assuming that the terrain isn't much different from what we've seen here, rd say it would take them nearly twenty-four hours to get this far. I'd also guess that they don't know exactly where the pilot went down, or else they might have tried a landing farther up the coast."

"That may be. But of course if they had wanted to avoid detection as much as possible they would. have landed in Parsangerfjord. It's the only sheltered spot along the entire coast all the way to the naval base."

'Well, unless the weather changes drastically, I'll go along with your estimate of twentyfour hours. They have an awful lot of searching along the way to do in the meantime."

"Yeah. I just hope we are reading the situation right and that they somehow did not track our boy by radar or somesuch. I'd look mighty foolish if they came marching in several hours from now, not even winded."

He glanced around and saw Teleman staring at him. Folsom's eyes widened in surprise and he waved a hand in greeting. Teleman •continued to stare at him, too tired and fuzzy to do more. Folsom finished the report quickly and signed off. Then he crawled back to the sleeping bag in which Teleman lay.

"How do you feel?" he asked as he reached into the sleeping bag for Teleman's arm to take his pulse. In contrast to the rapid, fluttery 166 beats per minute that he had exhibited several hours ago, his pulse had now slowed to 93, above normal, but probably due to the drug residues remaining in his system.

"Beat," Teleman said weakly.

"Other than that?"

"Nothing. I think I could . . . sleep for a week."

:Folsom grinned at him. "Yeah, I bet you could." He looked around at the sailor still folding up the radio and called him over.

"I want you to meet one of your helpmates. This character has an itchy trigger finger, or at least thinks he does," Folsom amended, grinning. "He's our chief gunnery officer—an empty title as we have no guns except for a one-inch popper for salutes. We stole him from the SEALS just for jobs like this. His name, and this you won't believe, is Beauregard Hubert McPherson, which probably accounts for the majority of his, fierceness," Folsom added.

McPherson grinned sheepishly and said, "Hello," his big, warm hand all but engulfing Teleman's.

Teleman looked up into the large, round face hanging over him like a second moon and smiled feebly, but did not find the strength to reply. Folsom saw that he was still exhausted and he and McPherson backed off.

"Okay, get some more sleep. We'll make the rest of the introductions later." Teleman nodded once and then was sound asleep. The two sailors looked down at the sleeping form and both shook their heads at the same time. "I'll bet that guy has really been though hell," McPherson murmured. Folsom was silent a moment, then: "Yeah, and I bet he'll go through more before we are out of this."

Beauregard Hubert McPherson, Chief Petty Officer, United States Navy, and former member of the SEALS, the naval version of the U. S. Army Special Forces, shifted the AR-18 carbine to his left hand, and with his right eased himself down into the slippery defile leading to the beach. Half sliding, half climbing, he went down through the thick snow from rock to rock until he reached the beach. Once there, he did not hesitate, but turned east and began loping down the beach in an easy, ground-covering jog. The snow, whipped by the wind into swirling curtains, was heavier along the water's edge than it had been above the cliffs, which was just what he wanted. Not only would the thick snow shield him from anyone approaching, but it would also serve to cover his tracks completely, something he could not depend on the drifting snow to do above the cliffs. He pushed on steadily for two hours, often having to climb over rock piles washed into weird positions by eons of waves and Arctic storms. Once he had to reclimb the cliffs when the beach, often little more than a narrow thread, ran out. As he trotted he kept a sharp lookout toward the sea, even though the snow was so heavy that visibility was zero after fifty feet at best. But McPherson was a careful man. He had fought with the SEALS