North Cape

by Joe Poyer

  enveloped the tent until Folsom said, 'Well, it looks like we are stuck here awhile. I'll set two-hour radio watches for routine checks,"

  "Fine. We'll keep you informed. Out."

  Several minutes later the tent flaps parted and Folsom crawled out and stood up. The wind moaned through the treetops with force enough to whip the powdery snow into twirling gusts. Vaguely he had in mind a short hike for a good look at the area, but the snow, falling heavily, and the wind, backing and filling through the trees, had created a ground blizzard. He changed his mind. It would be too easy to become confused and lost in the closely pressing trees. Instead, he rounded the tent and headed for the line of cliffs half a mile distant.

  The snow overlay provided treacherous footing among the frozen grass hummocks of the tundra. The powdery snow had not settled and frozen enough to provide firm footing as yet. He wondered just how far the muskeg extended. If for some reason they had to run for it, it would be bad enough with three healthy, rested men, but damned near impossible with the exhausted pilot. Less than a hundred feet from the tent he stopped and decided not to go any farther. The wind had freshened slightly and in a few minutes time the snowfall had almost. doubled. He had seen this

  happen before and knew that for the neat few hours they were in for a heavy blizzard. As he turned back, retracing his dimly seen footsteps quickly before they were covered by the falling and drifting snow, he thought of the heavy blizzard with gratitude. The Russians, should a capture party be landed, would not be able to move either. Once back in the tent, he organized the watches, checked on the sleeping Teleman, then settled into his own sleeping bag and was asleep in seconds.

  The snow continued to fall heavily during the long night. Folsom, had taken the second radio watch but the RFK reported nothing new. The ship's detector systems had so far uncovered no trace of movement in the vicinity of the North Gape: land, sea, or air. They had been, however, monitoring radio traffic and Larkin gave him an abstracted report.

  The Russians were seriously considering attempting the rescue or capture, depending on how you looked at it, of the downed pilot. Other than that, most of the transmissions had been in a new code which the ship's computers had as yet been unable to break. The transmissions had been recorded and relayed to Virginia, but so far they had had no word on what they contained. Folsom signed off with an uneasy feeling that something big was brewing. He only hoped that they would have some warning before it happened.

  The close-woven mesh of the nylon tent fabric was covered with snow. Even without the snow, the mesh did not allow much in the way of air circulation. The outside temperature had dropped to 35° F as the wind had all but disappeared, but inside the tent it had become stifling. When they had opened a tent flap, the warm air had immediately rushed out into the night, leaving the inside of the tent as cold as the outside. The three men had tried to keep the tent free of snow, but the blizzard was so heavy that it was almost useless to climb into parkas and boots and work for twenty minutes to brush away the snow. Folsom, lying in his sleeping bag after his second watch, was restless and wide awake. He groaned and rolled over, trying to ignore the closeness of the air, thinking longingly for the very first time of the mind-deadening desk job he had left in the Navy Department to serve aboard the RFK.

  CHAPTER 15

  Larkin, too, was lying awake in his bunk, but for different reasons. His mind was churning with the possibilities for action. Larkin was trying to examine the situation from the standpoint of the Soviet war room, which must, from somewhere, be directing the "

  rescue" operations. He had, as had many other military commanders before him, found it of great value to put himself in the enemy commander's place and as dispassionately as possible work out the tactic needed to destroy the enemy. This particular situation was a little bit different from others he had encountered in the past. This time he was sure that the enemy commander did not know the RFK existed. They might suspect that somehow, some American forces had gotten to the downed pilot, but they would not know the nature of these forces—which was a damned good thing, he thought grimly. Three men, armed with rifles, cut off from further support in the middle of the North Cape, was, not much of an' opposing force to worry about.

  They had made radar contacts with several, presumably Russian, aircraft throughout most of the afternoon and evening. All seemed to be orbiting the North Cape area where the pilot had gone down. None had ventured out to sea, a sign that Larkin interpreted as meaning the ship was undetected. Larkin was not worried about the ship. She was more than a match for anything the Soviets could throw in against her. But the Soviets would move twice as fast if they knew the RFK was nearby.

  As long as the blizzard lasted, he was safe from visual detection. His own electromagnetic counterdetection gear would protect him

  from electronic snooping; so Larkin held the position of the reserve queen on the chessboard, the deciding factor of the game.

  The buzzer on the intercom over his bunk interrupted his musings. He reached a hand and flipped the switch. "Larkin here."

  "Sorry to disturb you, sir," came the unruffled voice, "but sonar shows a blip, unidentified and approaching subsurface from the northeast."

  "Be right up," Larkin snapped and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. He had not had any decent sleep for more than twenty-four hours now and it was beginning to tell on him. He stumbled across to the lavatory and washed his face with hot water and soap, then rinsed with cold. With the cold water still running, he held his wrists under the stream until they were all but numb, then toweled his face and arms vigorously. This helped to refresh him for the moment. Wishing that he had time for a shower, he pulled on trousers and shirt, knotted a tie quickly, tugged on his turtleneck sweater, and, picking up his cap, left for the bridge.

  Three minutes later he was peering at the heavy seas through the ports, bracing himself against the railing. "All right, kill the lights."

  The tortured scene of thrashing white water and intense snow disappeared abruptly as the powerful searchlights winked out. Larkin turned from the screen and made his way to his console, where he strapped himself in. The marine guard, doubling as steward, brought him coffee.

  "Let's have a status report," he said into the microphone. "First, the radar."

  'We have identified the sub as Russian, possibly Anatov class, presumably nuclear powered. She is a hunter-killer-type from her hull and, if Anatov class, used for long-range coastal patrolling. Her present position is 32.76 degrees by 74.34 degrees, moving at fourteen knots, east by northeast. We are projecting a landing point now at eighteen miles southeast of where Mr. Folsom landed. ETA at four hours and fifty-six minutes at present course and speed."

  "Very well, put it on the board."

  Above the consoles against the after bulkhead a large screen lit up with a holographic map projection of the North Cape and its interlocking chain of islands and fjords, modified by sonar and radar information. The shallow coast and underwater shelf were clearly outlined for three miles out to sea. As Larkin watched, a star-shaped locator blazed up over the landing-party camp and a smaller pointer marked the location of the wrecked lifeboat.

  Farther east Larkin could see the long red trail culminating in a boat-shaped target point that was the Russian submarine heading into Porsangerfjord. A yellow dotted line extended ahead and was now resting on a shallow beach where the cliffs began to straggle down into a steep shelf. Twelve miles west and five south was the Norwegian town of Kjelvik, scarcely more than a fishing village of some two hundred inhabitants and a small Norwegian Coast Guard Base. The fjord waters were frozen solid just north of the town and the Russians would have little trouble crossing.

  Larkin shifted his gaze to the western coast showing on the map and found the extensive naval air base north of Rolfsö, first constructed by the Nazis in World War II as their northernmost air base for use against the Allied convoys making the dangerous run to Murmansk. From this same base the German Condo
r bombers had been able to bring the convoys under attack almost from the time they left Iceland. The Norwegians had taken the base over following the war and it now was their main defense post against a northern attack by the Russians. Even though tensions had eased considerably in recent years the base was still manned and in ready condition as a NATO installation. He knew that the twelve-inch radar-controlled guns first installed by the Nazis could cover anything within a radius of seventeen miles. They were backed up by intermediate-range surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missiles. Larkin knew that he had better not involve the Norwegians unless absolutely necessary. His orders were strict: to pick up the pilot at any cost; avoid alerting the Norwegians; avoid a pitched battle or any contact at all with the Soviets.

  Larkin sighed heavily and sat back in the chair. The heavy red line marking the path of the submarine had moved another half inch and he sighed again. "Another complication."

  "Pardon, sir?"

  "Nothing, just talking to myself. . . . What do you make of it, Mister?"

  The radar man hesitated only a moment. "From the radar, she's running half submerged with only her conning tower out. She's hugging the coast and heading for a point fifteen miles from where

  Mr. Folsom landed. There is only one place she could have come from, sir—the sub pens at Murmansk."

  "Why not from out at sea, riding out the storm below the surface?"

  "Wouldn't make sense, sir. In order to be safe from the coastal ridges and rocks outside of the Murmansk channel, she would have had to stand at least forty miles off the coast.

  A surface ship would be safe enough anywhere along the Russian coast, but a submarine would need at least sixty feet over her sail in these seas and that means at least a hundred and twenty feet of water-for maneuvering room. The coast around Murmansk, in fact in any of these fjord areas, does not run much over eighty feet. So she had to come from the sub pens. It would take her at least eight hours at her present cruising speed of -fourteen knots to get here."

  "That Makes a good bit of sense," Larkin agreed. "I think you may be right. If so, then we should not have to worry about any other Russian subs sneaking up on us from the northern waters for a while. If they are going to come, they will come in from Murmansk."

  Larkin sat back a moment and stared at the map. The rugged coast of the North Cape stretched away to the southeast before it turned sharply south into both Porsangerfjord and Laksefjord, wide deep chasms that would furnish protection for the submarine when it surfaced. It would also put them eighteen miles down the coast from where Folsom had landed. The submarine's apparent track indicated they were heading for the northern end of Porsangerfjord, where they would have the additional protection of the point. The map showed the ground in this area of the North Cape rising quickly from sea level to eight hundred feet, but gradually enough so that there would be a decent beach, partially sheltered from both the sea and the winds, with more than enough protection to land a small boat.

  Larkin made his decision. "Mr. Bridges, lay a course for a point where we can keep an eye on both the submarine when she goes under the lee and Mr. Folsom's party. Then have the crew stand to general quarters."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Bridges replied. He motioned to the communications officer and strode quickly to the plotting table. As he went over the lighted board, the GQ klaxon began its strident rasping

  throughout the ship. Almost immediately the control 'board began to wink from red to green as each station reported in.

  The U.S.S. Robert F. Kennedy came around on a course that would bring them to bear directly on the submarine and settled into the waves. Larkin himself took the conn and rapidly closed the gap between the two vessels. So far it appeared that the submarine had not seen the RFK, and Larkin doubted that, with her more limited equipment, they would be able to break through the ECM shield around the battle cruiser. They would be having troubles enough to spare much time for surveillance in any event.

  Larkin stood in as close as he dared until only fifty miles separated the two ships. His own detection equipment was excellent and there was no sense pushing his luck. For twenty minutes they watched the submarine as it changed course to run in under the lee of the Porsangerfjord, much as Larkin had expected. He was sure from the way the submarine was being handled that the Russian commander knew these waters well.

  Fjords are tricky places to take a submarine into. The complex currents between the narrow walls and the convolutions of the rock sides and bottom create a maze of conflicting sonar reports so that the underwater gear becomes almost useless for anything other than short-range work. The Russian commander was clearly over-running his sonar and Larkin wondered how many times the Russian had done this before. It made sense when he thought about it. This section of the Cape was practically deserted, with the exception of a few fishing villages. The only military installation on this end of the Cape was the coast guard base, placed there to protect the fishing fleet, not to conduct coastal surveillance. Other than that, there was only the Norwegian-manned NATO base on the far side of the Cape.

  To neutralize the NATO base if war should occur, a head-on attack would be suicidal.

  But a sufficiently large force in regiment strength, complete with vehicles, could be landed in Porsangerfjord and strike overland to take the base from the rear. With the NATO base in their hands the Soviet sub fleet would have free access to the Barents and Norwegian seas, and from there could move into the North Atlantic with little or no opposition.

  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 a
nd 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.