North Cape (25 page)

"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. '1 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. "A/1 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 numh, 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 hy 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.