North Cape

by Joe Poyer

  Behind him Larkin could hear the coughing of a second whalebc-at starting up. Ten men were in that party and they would continue down the fjord to find Folsom's party and render whatever assistance they could. It was probably a futile effort at best, but at least they had done everything they could. Larkin had sent a message direct to Virginia by satellite relay detailing his plans, but had not waited for a reply. Those short-sighted idiots would probably countermand his decisions.

  Larkin took the whaleboat in as close to the narrow beach as he dared before turning paralleL The depth of the fjord made it possible for him to come within twenty yards of the rocky beach. Ahead, the jutting headland that screened the two ships from each other stood out boldly in the weak sunlight. Larkin could have wished for darkness, but he suspected that to wait for the remaining hour of daylight to pass could very well be too late. By the time they rounded the headland and came within a thousand yards of the ship, he judged that the sun would be dipping close enough to the horizon so that darkness would be almost complete within the fjord.

  As the whaleboat puttered on with the muted roar of its muffled forty-horsepower engine, Larkin felt his own excitement reflecting back from the armed party. Each sat, staring forward,

  backs stiff with tension and hands firmly clasped around weapons. The gelignite charges were in two packs resting on the floorboards. One of the sailors had his foot resting on the top of the packs and a cord fastening both together looped around his wrist. Larkin reached down and picked his carbine up and ejected the clip, checked it, and then slammed it home. The sharp snap made the sailors jump. Larkin grinned at them and settled back against the thwart, portraying a relaxation he was far from feeling.

  He swung the tiller over, turning the bows to pass as close to the headland as possible, and looked back. The sunlight filtering down through the canyon was beginning to wane, but the bows-on silhouette of the RFK was sharply etched against the crack of blue-gray sky.

  The boat ran on, cutting around the final curve of the rock out-thrust, and cautiously Larkin edged even closer to the rock wall. The noise of the engine was faint, but he wondered if the soft whoosh of the steady wind would be enough to conceal it from the lookouts that would surely be stationed on the sub's bridge.

  Before they cleared the final jut of rock, Larkin idled the engine down and let the boat drift,. slipping the gears into reverse but keeping the clutch depressed. The whaleboat continued under its own momentum, and there against the far shore was the sail of the submarine. The bows were pointing in toward the eastern side and she seemed to be anchored in the middle of the fjord, although Larkin knew that no skipper in his right mind would anchor under these conditions. Then he heard the muffled chugging of engines. She was using her engines to keep station. Larkin was flabbergasted. She was not nuclear powered. Those were diesel engines.

  What a lucky break, he thought If they cut directly across the fjord and approached from the stern the chances of being spotted by the lookouts, who would be watching the eastern cliffs, were remote. And he could make speed. The noise of the submarine's own engines would cover the whaleboat's.

  "Watch them very carefully. We're going in."

  Larkin shifted back into forward and let the clutch out in one smooth motion. He pulled the throttle out and felt the reassuring feel of the boat as it leaped ahead. Five minutes.

  That's all he needed. Five minutes.

  He almost got it. They were fifty feet from the submarine's stern when they were spotted. Larkin kept the throttle out until the last moment, as two sailors from the lookout stations came running aft to see who they were. One called out something questioning in Russian that sounded like Norski.

  Norski," he shouted back, promptly exhausting his Norwegian vocabulary. He cut the engine and called softly to his men,- "When I yell go ... do so. But no shooting unless you have to."

  As they pulled up to the stern a figure appeared on the bridge, took one look, and ducked back out of sight. Larkin could almost hear him frantically calling the bridge.

  A line was thrown to the two Russian sailors, who caught it and pulled in. While they were occupied with the rope, Larkin bellowed, "Go."

  His own men poured out of the whaleboat and onto the sloping stern to the surprise of the two Russians, who dropped the rope and reached for their slung rifles. They never had a chance. It seemed that half a dozen carbine butts hit all at once. They dropped without a sound.

  Larkin leaped onto the stern and immediately felt a vibration run through the ship as the beat of the engines deepened at the same time.

  "Get those charges set!" From forward and the bridge simultaneously came the sound of hatches slamming shut.

  "Peterson, you and Johnson take the aft hatch. Orlowski and Brone get a charge against that ballast tank, where it joins the hull five feet for'ard the hatch. Mover As the men jumped onto the decking with the demolition charges, Larkin could feel the submarine begin to move. He knew that it would take less than thirty seconds to get up enough weigh and ballast to get the decks under water.

  He yelled at the remaining four men and ran for the sail and bolted up the ladder. The bridge was clear, all hatches battened down.

  "Two of you up on the lookout. The rest, get around the sides, out of sight."

  Larkin backed away rapidly. He knew that when the charges went off somebody was going to come out of that hatch, and they would probably come out shooting. He waved the two men now on the catwalk to watch the forward hatch.

  "Anybody comes out, open up."

  He glanced around quickly and swung back down over the side to see how the demolition parties were coming. Both were running for the bridge, the ignition wires trailing out behind them to the charges taped against the hatch and ballast tank.

  Larkin hopped back onto the bridge and shouted-down to fire the charges. Already the after portion of the deck was under water and forward, waves were curling up around the forepeak.

  The explosives went off with a resounding clang. The submarine shuddered along its length and the engines changed beat as he heard the high-pitched whoosh of compressed air blowing ballast from the tanks.

  Larkin yanked the VERY pistol from his belt and fired the flare straight up into the rapidly darkening sky. The flare arced up to three hundred feet and burst with a beautiful display of red flame. In less than two minutes the RFK should burst around the headland.

  He broke open the pistol, ejected the second flare, and rammed a new one home. Larkin had estimated that it would take the RFK six minutes or so to reach the submarine. He had managed to stop the submarine; now could he capture it before the RFK smashed it to the bottom under her forefoot?

  He leaned over the coaming once more and shouted down. "Peterson, you and Johnson get back to the boat and be ready to take us off. Orlowski, you and Brone cover that aft hatch, just in case."

  He swung around in time to hear the squeal of the hatch being opened, and drew his pistol with his right hand. He waved the others back around the curve of the bridge. The hatch cracked open, held a moment, then pushed farther up. Larkin knelt down, almost in back of the hatch, and waited. From where he knelt, he was out of sight. A head appeared, looked around, and, seeing no one, pushed the hatch back until the lift engaged and it clicked back. Larkin leaned forward and pressed the pistol muzzle into the temple of the emerging sailor.

  Larkin had never seen anyone turn white so fast, and in spite of the tension he grinned.

  "Strasvechi, tovarish—Americanski." Then in English, "Do you speak English?"

  Very carefully the head wobbled back and forth in what Larkin took for a negative answer. The sailor, with the .445 Navy Colt pressed against his temple, looked ready to faint.

  "Nyet," he managed to force out.

  Above his head, Larkin heard two carbines firing.

  "What's going on?" he demanded sharply.

  "Trying to get out the forward hatch, sir. We fired a couple of bursts across the deck and they changed their mi
nds." "Good, keep 'em scared."

  Larkin risked a quick look at his watch. Pour minutes to go. "Any sign of the ship?" he yelled.

  "No, sir . . . wait, aye, sir, just rounding the headland now." "Anybody down there speak English?" Larkin called through the hatch.

  After a moment, a voice answered, "Yes."

  Larkin tapped the sailor on the head with thepistol butt "Down, buddy. . . . All right, get up here fast."

  A minor commotion was created in the narrow hatchway as the reprieved sailor scrambled down past the other climbing up. Another minute was wasted while he did so.

  Larkin waved his pistol and an officer climbed out to stare around in shock. The Russian was dressed only in shipboard uniform and gasped as he felt the cold. He immediately huddled against the canvas windbreak that had been rigged on the bridge.

  "My name is Larkin, commanding officer of the battle cruiser Robert F. Kennedy, United States Navy. You are now a prisoner of war and your ship a prize of war." Larkin knew that this was not true since no state of war had been declared, but he was depending on the shock value of the statement to unbalance the Russian even more.

  The Russian glanced around and saw the others with leveled carbines, gulped once, and swung back to stare at Larkin, who was casually slinging his carbine over his shoulder.

  "I . . . I . . . I am Ptior Shafesky Rasnikov, Lieutenant Commander . . ." He broke down and finished up lamely, "Executive Officer . . . what are you—"

  "Cut it," Larkin grated harshly. "You have just two minutes left to surrender this ship.

  Look out there."

  The Russian officer followed Larkin's pointing finger and saw the RFK running at full speed for the submarine, less than 15oo

  yards off. His eyes, as they turned back to Larkin, were round with surprise.

  Larkin waved the flare gun in his left hand. "Two minutes. If I don't fire a flare before then, she'll run you under."

  It took a full half minute for Rasnikov to digest what Larkin had just said, and then he swung around and grabbed the bridge microphone and shouted a stream of incomprehensible Russian. The sounds that emerged from the speaker were just as incomprehensible, but seconds later Larkin heard feet scrabbling on the ladder. He jumped to the hatch and pulled it loose, but Rasnikov screamed at him to stop.

  "The Captain . . ." he explained weakly.

  A slim figure jumped from the hatch, brushed past Larkin, and leaned across the railing to peer at the approaching RFK.

  The RFK had come to within two hundred yards and every detail behind the ports of the lighted bridge was plainly visible. The curling bow wave served to accentuate the sharpness of the prow, aimed directly for The submarine's bridge.

  The Russian captain stiffened, and turned slowly to face Larkin. As they stood there examining each other, Larkin sensed the shock that he knew must come with the knowledge of a ship lost. He' thought that perhaps he must have come close to this same feeling the day he had run in under the North Vietnamese coastal guns and taken that hit in the fantail.

  Slowly the Russian nodded and turned his palms outward. He said something in Russian and the executive officer translated.

  "We surrender," he said quietly. Larkin looked sharply at the Russian officer. He was certain that the captain had said I. The we surrender was indicative to Larkin of both discipline and ability. He nodded with approval and raised the VERY pistol and fired the second flare.

  Twenty minutes later Larkin was climbing the netting thrown over the side of the RFK.

  Behind him, on the deck and bridge of the submarine, RFK crew members were herding the Russian crew up on deck and filing down into the submarine. As he regained the deck he looked down the fjord, then back at the Russian captain clambering up after him.

  Suddenly he jerked his eyes back to the fjord. There against the sky a red flare was climbing. Seconds later

  it was followed by a third and then a fourth. Forgetting about the Russians, he ran for the bridge.

  As he came through the hatch Bridges swung around on him. "Captain, flares at 8563

  yards down the fjord. Our recognition signal—one long, two short. We had part of a radio transmission a minute ago. They need fire support."

  Larkin did not hesitate. "Answer fast. Plot the range and get me an open channel to Virginia." Seconds later he was explaining quickly the capture of the Russian ship and advising official contact with the Norwegians before he had to contact them.

  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 ali
ve, 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.