North Cape

by Joe Poyer

  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 mill-tary 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 unahle 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 supp
osed 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 heen 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."